


Speed Dating (Let's Take it Slow)

by APaletteFullofYou



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Also featured: Yuri goes Speed Friending, Bad Puns, Breaking all the rules, Multi, Phichit is the Best, Self-Love, Speed Dating, The Slow Burn is only for the reader, Will Georgi ever find love?, Yuuri's awkward, multiple POVs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-09-12 19:59:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9088042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APaletteFullofYou/pseuds/APaletteFullofYou
Summary: “Why like this?” Yuuri asks, breaking the silence.Phichit grins. “Because desperate times call for desperate measures. And if you haven’t noticed, we’re desperate.--Tired of watching Georgi mull over his recent breakup, Viktor and the gang take him speed dating, hoping one of the twenty-something strangers could help fill the hole in his heart.Now if only he could stop crying.





	1. Breaking the Ice

“You know, I really don’t think this is a good idea... why don’t we just go back to the dorms?”

“For the last time, I’m doing this for your own good, Yuuri. You need to go out and meet some people, live a little for once!”

“I, well…” He wants to say that he lives enough, but both of them know that’s a bold-faced lie. Instead he gives a petulant huff and turns to bargaining: “Phichit, I swear to you, if we turn back, I’ll watch all the King and the Skater movies with you. All of them.”

It’s a hard bargain but the ongoing lurching present in Yuuri’s gut for the last few days convinces him it’s a good one, even though the original and sequel are nearly four hours combined and that’s very valuable time that could be spent studying for next week’s quiz on marketing.

Adding on the animated remake, the better remake, the 2006 theatre version on blu-ray, complete with lyric booklet, and maybe even the godawful Chinese bootleg version Phichit had received last Christmas during their friend’s (intentionally bad) Secret Santa, would probably destroy his grades—but it would all be worth it if he could be safe, cozy, and most importantly  _not_ involved with any social interaction other than asking Phichit to pass the popcorn as they bask in the comfort of Yuuri’s creaky mattress.

“Hmmm…” Phichit pauses, lips pursed, curled to the side as if in consideration of the proposal.

Having seen that face many, many times before, Yuuri knows it’s no deal, but it’s not like he really expects him to flip 180° and say, “you know what? You’re right, this is a bad idea like that time I told Leo it’d be funny to make a meme song mashup, because for some inane reason Leo actually  _did_ think it would be funny to use his expertise, bless his soul, to create what was probably a transgression against God and the High Heavens, and play it during JJ’s very solemn engagement party with all his relatives there right after the slow songs ended. Let’s go back.”

The answer he imagines and receives is, “tempting, but still no.” At this point, he pesters Phichit mainly for the sake of satisfaction from being petty and obnoxious, though a small piece of him clings to the off-chance of hope.

“Even the bootleg? Even the kids that look like they’re thirty?”

Phichit raises his face, eyelids falling shut. “Even that.”

“Then how about I… cook your favorites for the next week—no—month?”

“But you love cooking, and as much as I’d like that I can’t risk the calories so I think you should maybe try finding, you know, someone _else_ to cook for.”

Afterwards, the only reply Phichit receives is a heavy sigh, visible in the cold air even though the sun is still high in the sky.

The two of them bumble along a sidewalk littered with a mixture of crunchy brown leaves, freshly fallen, and dilapidated newspapers, rendered a mushy pulp from yesterday’s series of squalls. It’s too cold for what they’ve been wearing toward the end of summer, so Yuuri opts for a puffy fur-trimmed jacket in lieu of his favorite blue hoodie and Phichit breaks out one of his winter coats early.

Like Yuuri’s breath, the insinuation hangs in the air.

“Why like this?” Yuuri breathes out, breaking the silence.

Phichit grins. “Because desperate times call for desperate measures. And if you haven’t noticed, we’re desperate.”

In reality, there plenty of reasons he could name, but he’s already told them a hundred times (he’s starting to think Yuuri’s asking just to annoy him). There’s no answer again, so he continues, softly, “Yuuri… do you know how long it’s been since the last time you went on a date?”

As he wipes the layer of fog from his glasses to clear both the lenses and his mind, he takes a moment to ponder.   
  
A few months right? Wasn’t that normal?   
  
It’s not like he could spend every living minute trying to find a lover, even though he’s ‘starved for affection’ as Phichit has described. Though he’s right, because despite the fact that he’s just about the most awkward and average person he can name, he desperately craves romance, like the kind in the books he reads. 

“Ummm…” he murmurs, unable to remember when he last dated, which may be a byproduct of trying to wipe said date from his mind, “it wasn’t  _that_ lon—”

“—9 months ago!” Phichit’s suddenly impassioned voice cuts him off, “I’ve been keeping track and we’re at... 9 months and a week! That’s an entire pregnancy and you’ve kicked everyone’s ass in the betting pool. I had _faith_ in you Yuuri, but you failed me.” 

Said man shoots Phichit an incredulous look, but he understands the tab-keeping is partially warranted; they and their friends all know of his meager dating history, and pay special care not to mention his last almost-relationship which had gone terribly, horribly, irrevocably wrong. It wasn’t his fault, per say, it’s just his date was only pleasant up until the time that Yuuri showed him pictures of his dog which somehow led to finding out he was, unfortunately, a closet furry. He had never heard of the term “yiff” before that night, and frankly, he never wanted to hear it ever again.

Even _that_ date had taken months for JJ to set up (“I didn’t know,” he’d sworn), and since then he’d been too caught up in school and foreboding to try again. 

“I said 4 months but that’s not what’s important right now,” Phichit declares, punctuating with a wide sweeping motion that snaps Yuuri out of his flashbacks, “what’s important is that, today, you WILL put yourself out there, and you WILL nab yourself a cutie, and we can finally double date and have the American college dream experience!”

“We’re both single though.”

“Not for long!”

He’s led through a busy plaza composed mainly of colorful cafés, family restaurants, and pricey high-end department stores, allowed to stop only when they reach a large, cream-colored building with a sign that reads “ _ICE_ .” The smaller tagline underneath reads, “ _Love and Friendship Made Easy, Just Break the Ice!_ ” 

This simple building and it’s sign, contrastingly written in overly-pretentious font, shouldn’t intimidate Yuuri as much as it does, but in it’s midst he finds himself frozen solid except for the hand that he uses to tug on his friend’s sleeve.

Phichit looks back, prompting with a slow blink.

“I…I don’t think I can do this,” Yuuri sighs, looking anywhere else to avoid staring directly at him, especially the worry lines forming around his brows . The waves in his stomach swell when he glances over the signboard again, so he faces the ground. 

“Yuuri—”

He cuts him off with a shake of his head, fingers losing grip. “I’m so bad at this whole…meeting new people thing. I feel like I always make a fool of myself.” He can remember so many situations where it’s happened before, never sure if the mocking laughter and judgmental gazes are just in his head.

This time, the words are taken seriously; his benevolent roommate knows very well the signs of a breakdown.

“Don’t worry too much about it. You’re great. You’ll _do_ great, just, ah, breathe a little first,” Phichit advises , giving him a second to calm down and punctuating with his own breath in between. ”Your date will probably be just as nervous as you are, even if they don't look like it.” 

He grabs Yuuri’s hand in a silent pledge to his words, giving it a test squeeze along with a sincere smile that he hopes is equally calming, and tells him, “You'll be fine. Besides, if you can charm me and half the Theatre Department into loving you, you can definitely do the same with a stranger.”

“...Thanks,” Yuuri replies when he’s able to bring his rapid exhalation into check, filtering some much needed air into his lungs. He rubs his neck at the over-exaggeration, but Phichit’s reassurance does make him feel better—as it always does—and the warmth against his palm keeps him grounded. 

Despite the whole sheer ridiculousness of the situation and the feeling of impending doom that’s basically punching him in the throat, he resumes toward the glass doors. He pushes one open, catching his breath on the first step onto the plush, welcoming ‘E _njoy Your Stay!’_ mat and letting it go on the second. 

_I can do this_ , he thinks to himself, _the last date was just a bad fluke._ _  
_

He breathes.

Phichit reminds him of some basic tips and etiquette as they continue down the hallway, make a left, and keep walking until they find room buzzing with indistinct chatter, a sign next to the door reading, _“Session today, 5:00-8:00 pm, 20-28/M-F/B.”_ The other sign is plastered to the wall, written in bold to plainly state the room’s purpose. _  
_

“We’re here just on time. Come on, let’s roll and get signed in before they start without us.”

“Okay,” is all he manages before Phichit pushes open the door, allowing the fluorescent lighting to filter through his glasses and momentarily blind him.

He only regrets it doesn’t permanently do so, because a dozen eyes immediately look their way. They belong to people standing in short and dwindling line, stares lingering longer than Yuuri deems comfortable, though that's not saying much since he considers just about any eye contact with strangers disconcerting. When they join the line most of the gazes retreat, but Yuuri can’t help but notice some glances back at them, and he hopes it’s because Phichit looks good today (he always does, but more so today) and not because he’s halfway hyperventilating (he always is, but more so today).

Before he realizes, Phichit, in front of him, finishes his business with the sign-in clerk and it’s his turn next. “I’ll see you later,” he’s told with a small wave as Phichit’s back fades from view.

 _He’s gone now… I can still run_ , Yuuri’s brain supplies, but the part that thinks, _he’d never forgive me. Heck, I’d never forgive me_ , makes him give his name to the smiling clerk, who flips a paper over the end of a clipboard to, presumably, mark him present, then hands him a small complimentary notepad and pen. It’s blue, he notes, though too dark to be his favorite shade. 

“You seem nervous,” the clerk observes as he shakily takes the items. “First time?”

“Ah—um, nyes, I mean yes, my friend signed us both up,” Yuuri sputters, face heating.

“Don’t worry, you’ll probably get a lot of matches.”

He can’t tell of the clerk is being sarcastic or not, but he thanks him anyways and makes his way to his assigned space. It’s a small, circular table with two cozy chairs being the only furnishings around it, and a small number card reading ‘ _24_ ’ on top. He’s at the very end of the room, having come in last, but he doesn’t mind in the slightest since it’s less noisy and crowded than in the middle.

 _This is it_ , he thinks, watching a clock tick down until the inevitable starting bell. There’s only a few minutes until the event starts. _Instead of making a fool out of myself once I can do it 24 times. Oh joy. I just hope I don’t meet any weirdos._

His chest is pounding furiously and, _oh god_ , is he starting to sweat? It feels too warm. He doesn’t want his first impression to be sweaty. The clock seems to be ticking down at the rate of his heart beat, nearing the beginning of the end.

Partway into a prayer to some unnamed higher force in the universe, people start to take their seats across from those already occupying the chairs. The first round is a bit of a free-for-all but it isn’t long before everyone settles.

Yuuri can’t help but jerk when he hears the chair in front of him scrape the ground, and swerves his eyes from the clock to see a brunette man sit down and scoot the chair forward. A bell rings at that very moment, starting the first meeting of the day, but they sit and stare at each other for a few seconds, the stranger’s gaze studying and Yuuri’s wide-eyed.

“Hi,” the stranger finally offers with a handshake, “I’m Thomas, but you can call me Tom.”

Yuuri takes the offered hand with a thankfully dry but weak grip, or maybe it’s just that the other’s hold is too constricting.  Did people usually introduce themselves like this on a date? It feels more like a business meeting.

“H-Hi, I’m Yuuri.”

“So is this your first time speed dating, Yuuri?”

“Yeah… um, how about you?”

“Oh me? I’ve been here plenty of times,” Thomas laughs, and Yuuri knows it’s supposed to come out as a joke but all it does is make it tangibly awkward—just like the silence that falls over them like a solid curtain.   
  
There, that’s it folks.   
  
He can already imagine the cartoon cane hooking around his waist and dragging him back to the dorm room. Still, he promised Phichit he would try, and it’s the least he can do after all the other has done for him, even if he’s starting to feel a distinct nausea.  
  
 _Conversation. Think. Say something._ He wracks his mind for any possible topic. There should be plenty of things to talk about! Favorite movies or music, hobbies, if he had any pets or if he at least liked animals; the usual smalltalk would work just fine but the questions crowding his brain just aren’t translating out of his mouth, and it only makes it worse that his conversation partner seems to be waiting for him to speak as well. 

_Crap, he’s staring. C’mon, anything._

“Um!” Yuuri chokes on the air like it's water.  He’s about to ask what Thomas’ favorite color is, because that’s definitely a safe, if boring, get-to-know-you question, but his mind goes blank and his vision swirls in vertigo, so the next words that slur from his mouth don’t register until after he blurts them out.

“Areyousecretlyafurry?”  
  
_Shit._


	2. No Good Deed Goes UnPUNished

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Viktor chapter, and also Georgi.
> 
> Thanks for all the feedback on chapter 1 (´▽｀;)ゝ

Before he’d signed up, Viktor had been unaware that there was such a thing as Speed Dating Etiquette: the sacred rules, some unspoken and some explicitly laid out by the hosting company, that all experienced and informed ‘Speeders’ abide by in order to create a safe, fun, and otherwise organized atmosphere.   
  
Obviously, some first-timers (and second, and three-peaters, and serial repeaters), who don’t bother to read the mood or online tips, would surely desecrate these boundaries, causing their dates, or perhaps even themselves, acute discomfort.

Some of it is just common sense; try not to ramble about yourself and let your partner speak because you only have a limited amount of time, don’t be a creeper, don’t insult people, and perhaps partake in some general hygiene beforehand. Others are less obvious, such as; try not to use your cell phone, let loose and be truthful to yourself, but not too much, and for your own good, do _not_ talk about your exes. Sometimes there’s an urge to compare, but even as a compliment it’s better to just keep it inside.

One technique Viktor learns—thanks to the Great and Omniscient WikiAnswers—is the conventional first-name-only introduction. This is mostly for secrecy purposes, and is sometimes recommended by Speed Dating companies to ward off unwanted attention, especially for women. Even if one _does_ provide their surname, it’s considered rude to demand their date mate to reciprocate.

Another major aspect, laid out in contract, dotted and signed with reader discretion, is that participants are asked not to solicit contact information or promises of a non-speed date during the meeting, making it less likely that someone is pressured into it rather than fully consenting. Instead, matches are made when participants submit a list of persons they’d like to forward their information to, and if both parties choose each other, the company mediates the connection.

Both of these are particularly important, Viktor notes.

The first because he’s had stalkers, the number way more than enough to be a fair share of them, and the second because he’s terrible when it comes to turning down distasteful offers—at least in a way that makes it so that people _don’t_ want to ruin his life.

One woman he’d rejected two years ago had even charged at his at-the-time boyfriend for, as she claimed, “TURNING HIM GAY, YOU SON-OF-A-BITCH!”

That, of course, is a fallacy.

He’s open to dating anyone of any gender, so as long as that person fits him on an emotional level and, to a lesser extent, a physical one—he wasn’t about to pretend that looks or physical intimacy didn’t matter to him at all, though there were some people out there that could make it matter much, much less.

Viktor had always been bisexual, but for the hysterical woman punching his soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend, he was most definitely _bye_ -sexual.

_Ah,_ he thinks, hooking a leash onto his dog’s collar for the morning walk, _I can use that if I ever tell this story again_.

But Yuri and Mila are sick of that story.   
  
Almost as much as Viktor is sick of hearing flatmate sob into his pillow during the twilight hours, separated from him by a thick layer of wood, concrete, and plaster, and yet still managing to overcome it all to keep Viktor awake into the night, or lull him into a fitful sleep.  
  
But Georgi is of his longest-lasting friends, and although he’s tired (in more than one sense) of seeing him mull over it, Viktor can’t bring himself to confront this problem every time the heartbroken soul walks into the kitchen the next morning, haggard and eyes red, rubbed raw, thinking that the mention of anything related to his ex will just cause more tears and need for counsel.

After a week of this, Viktor, his teenage cousin Yuri, and family friend who he suspects is Yuri’s only friend, Mila, deliberate and decide that Georgi needs something to help him move on; or at least distract him from his ex. Even the youngest of them, the brash, blunt, and generally offensive Yuri, who had told Georgi to grow a pair immediately following the breakup, had started to show concern after coming home from school one day to find Georgi skipping work, sitting on the floor surrounded by pictures of _her_ and sobbing into a bowl of pistachio ice cream.

They stage a surprise intervention one weekend, sitting around Viktor’s mahogany coffee table with hands folded in their laps like a funeral procession, eyes flitting nervously  towards each other waiting for someone to pop the news to Georgi, who’s in the center seat mostly confused. He’s still miserable and brooding, but the worried looks in his friend’s eyes are hard to miss even through his anguished stupor.

The bravest of them speaks first. “Soooo. How have you been?” Mila asks, expertly somersaulting under the metaphorical elephant in the room.

“Not too... bad,” Georgi says, but it comes out as more of a croak from his unused throat, and from the reactionary wincing he knows he sounds terrible.

Mila fiddles with her phone, pretending at casualness. “Have you done anything, like, fun recently?”

“No.”

“Wanna do... something?”

There’s a long, unsettling pause. Georgi sighs. “What are yo—”

“—We signed you up for speed dating!” Yuri screams, finally cracking under the pressure.

“What.”

Before any more damage is done, Viktor takes over in a hurry, “we thought you might need a change of pace, since you haven’t gone out much lately. Me and Mila even signed up to go with you!”

“It’s later today,” Mila adds, “and after we can all get a late dinner or something.”  
  
“Yeah, we can go to that Chinese restaurant you like.”

They wait, expecting Georgi to protest, perhaps cry, as his face shifts through a variety of expressions before flushing pink.   
  
“Oh, Georgi, it’s okay, we don’t have to if it’s too much too soon. We just...”   
  
But the man simply tells them, “thanks, everyone” and tries to hold back his sniffles. He’s not very good at it (never has been) and ends up bawling while Viktor and Mila rub uneven circles into his back.   
  
It’s been weeks now, and everything still remind him of her. He knows he should be over Anya, because she’ll never take him back and they weren’t good for each other anyways, but the part of him that believes in the years they spent together denies it. As much as his emotions don’t, his reasonable side at least recognizes irrationality—even if it can’t stop him from associating everything with his ex and losing himself in hysteria.   
  
Maybe going out tonight might be the push he needs to move on. It won’t happen magically, but his friends are right; he’s been holed up for everything besides work and hasn’t been taking good care of himself. Since they’re so worried for him he can at least try, though he has no guarantees for being able to function normally in his state.   
  
“Sorry for springing this on you,” Viktor says once Georgi’s tears ease, giving him a one-armed hug. “Maybe you should get ready?”   
  
Georgi nods and heads for his room to change out of his comfort sweats.   
  
As he reaches the door, Yuri, who’s laying on the couch, exhausted from the strenuous advent of _feelings,_ tells Viktor, “bring me some leftovers from dinner.”   
  
“See, about that…”   
  
Yuri sees the formation of Mila and Victor’s matching grins, indescribable in any other way than ‘shit-eating,’ and gets a terrible premonition.   
  
“...You’re coming too. We signed you up!”   
  
“Surprise!”   
  
While Georgi washes his face in preparation for shaving, Yuri’s rage-filled voice, muffled through the wall, fills him with a peculiar serenity; he feels he hasn’t heard it in forever since everyone’s been walking on eggshells around him.   
  
“I’m underaged, this is illegal you sick fucks!”   
  
So peaceful.   
  
It’s not actually illegal, though. While Yuri’s too young for actual speed dating, they find out the company also hosts so-called “Speed Friending.” And so, they decide for him, taking full advantage of the fact they are ‘responsible adults,’ what better way to show support for Georgi than to go?   
  
As she explains to him, Mila adds she would go watch Yuri if she could—just in case he went wild and tried to beat someone up, like that time in the eighth grade when someone insulted his leopard-print sneakers, though she doesn’t mention this detail—but the age range for that particular group is 16 to 19. She eeks into the speed dating group that allows persons 20 to 28.   
  
“Come on Yura, maybe you’ll make some friends besides us.”   
  
“You’re NOT my friends!” he hisses. Not literal hissing, though he did once have a phase like that.   
  
The statement is met with Viktor’s trademark condescending smile, angelic but always used to deliver death blows. “Well, that means you have no friends then.”   
  
“I have—!” he starts, but deflates in a way that’s somehow still angry, when he realizes he has no real comeback for that.   
  
“...I’m only going for dinner.”   
  
“Let’s all get ready then. Your event starts half an hour earlier than ours.”   


* * *

  
And that’s how Viktor ends up at a table with a little ‘ _3_ ’ placard on top, sitting across from a woman who, of all things, is allergic to dogs.   
  
He  _can’t_ date someone who’s incapable, whether physically or mentally, of accepting his lovely pet poodle, Makkachin. He’s tried before. When the man, arms covered in spotty rashes, told him, “it’s either me or the dog,” Viktor smiled lovingly at him (at Makkachin), and said, “I guess you’re barking up the wrong tree, then.”   
  
He still wonders if he got slapped because he chose his dog or because his pun wasn’t appreciated. Maybe it was both.   
  
His current date mate says, “I just love your hair,” and twirls a finger around her own locks a few times before adding, “is it dyed or is it naturally that color?”   
  
“It’s natural. But isn’t it just to _dye_ for?” he answers. From the way she recoils, lips twitching into a purse, he can tell he’s raised a red flag, and that she has no sense of humor. Not a good one at least.   
  
They have a back-and-forth until the end of their time, but the more he says, the less interested she seems to become.   
  
That’s another part of Viktor that tends to factor into the ends of his relationships. Not just the puns or spontaneity—it’s a lot of things about him. Many of his former friends and lovers, _most of them_ , he thinks, had left his life because he was different than they expected, in a way that couldn’t be mended by time or passion.   
  
He can’t blame them and he can’t shoulder that blame all for himself; he lets go as easily as he opens up. For Viktor, the fact is that people just don’t mix for countless reasons, countless circumstances.  
  
There’s a clear disconnect between his professional behavior and how he acts towards his loved ones that throws people off, and he knows that.   
  
Professional Viktor is suave, controlled, and always thinking about ways to impress others: What to do, what to say, how to look best for the cameras, both figurative and literal. He does modeling, sometimes. This Viktor calculates actions and reactions, and can capture nearly anyone’s hearts with a well-practiced smile and some small-talk.   
  
Everyday Viktor doesn’t take so much thought to carry himself. While he looks as put-together as always, most people who come into his life—mainly fellow models or others in the line of work—can’t fathom the leap to shitty jokes, staying home to read and write on Friday nights, or his general lack of personal space, memory, and filters among other things. Others might tolerate it for some time and then gently fizzle out of his life like seafoam.   
  
When he doesn’t need to, such as while enduring the situation now, Viktor doesn’t bother with formalities. The people who like him will like him, and don’t have to be disappointed if they find out the dark, handsome stranger turns out to be a silly man worried about aging out of chances for love, with a great abundance of it for anyone who comes to accept it, and yet won’t tell anyone to _stay_ .   
  
He thinks he may be petty and a bit selfish, in some strange backward way, for not putting more care into his relationships, but there are very few people he’s ever felt he needed rather than wanted. Oddly enough, those people tended to be the ones that never needed him to say anything at all.  
  
The seven minutes end with a clanging sound, signaling the first rotation. 

“It was nice meeting you, Viktor.”  
  
“Ah yes, thank you, it was a pleasure,” he says. He can’t remember her name, but he wasn’t thinking of marking her down anyways. 

In the little time it takes for the next person to take her place, some absent notions about everyone else come to him. Is Georgi having fun right now? Maybe Mila got to brag about her amazing grip strength. Yura’s been in another room for a while now, so perhaps he’s made some friends? Or enemies. That was a probable outcome since he, just like Viktor, had little filter. But it’s not like being a bit brash stops you from being a good person.   
  
The next session doesn’t officially start until the percussion clangs once more, but it’d be awkward to just sit there in silence until it does, and the man that shuffles into the seat looks friendly, so Viktor introduces himself the standard way. “My name’s Viktor. How are you today?”   
  
“I’m doing pretty good. I’m Cline, by the way. Uh, with a Y, not an I though.”   
  
“My name’s spelled with a K,” Viktor replies, smiling back at him.   
  
Though good-looking in a sense, he’s not quite Viktor’s type. Maybe they could be friends.   
  
Clyne runs his eyes over as much of Viktor that he can see, which is mainly the ribs and above, before meeting his gaze with a determined expression.   
  
“I’m gonna get straight to the point. I’m looking for someone hot who doesn’t mind getting down quick and easy. I’m free all night—I’m free right now,” he says all at once.     
  
“Oh!” Viktor exclaims, unable to stop his eyes from popping open and his mouth from hanging so low it’s about to hit the table. He collects himself, jaw and all. “Oh, n-no. I’m...sorry? Did you mean…?”   
  
Similar situations have happened before but he didn’t expect such a direct offer at a Speed Dating gathering of all places.   
  
“I’m looking for someone to fuck. Or multiple people if you don’t mind. I wouldn’t. You look like you’d be a freak.” He bends over the table and licks his lips, turning his chin up and making direct eye contact through his hooded gaze.   
  
The clang signalling the beginning rings out only now, but Viktor feels like he’s already been here for centuries. Good thing his hair is already white.   
  
Viktor considers getting up to report this man to the front desk this very second, because this is against Speed Dating Law and regular ethics in many senses, but decides to wait until Clyne is a few rotations down, or until someone else does, just in case he decides to seek revenge. For now, he settles for leaning back as far as possible and wearing the most unsexy face he can manage, which is hard for someone so beautiful.   
  
“I’m really good with my tongue.” The appendage in question comes out to fuel Viktor’s nightmares, and he half-hopes for Georgi to cry him to sleep tonight instead.   
  
“...I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”   
  
What he really means is that he’d like to de-Clyne.


	3. Time is Cruel, Then Kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't what i thought I'd write and prob also not what you thought you'd read
> 
> And also also thanks for all the feedback it is extremely appreciated. I try to reply back but if I don't it's prob cause I don't have anything relevant to say so I don't wanna clutter stuff up with like "haha yeah :)" but seriously everything makes me really happy

How much money, effort, and time would it take to fake his own death, forge a new identity, and move to anywhere but Michigan so that he could erase this embarrassing moment from his life?    
  
Probably too much for his budget, but Yuuri can dream.    
  
“Umm, did you just—”   
  
“NO, I—!”    
  
He gestures wildly through the air, and he has about as much grip there as he has on himself. “Sorry, I mean, I didn’t really mean to say... that, oh god. Could we please forget I said anything!?”   
  
Evidently they can’t, because Thomas gives him a doubtful look anyways and asks, “uh, why furries? Do I look like that type of person or something? Are you…?”   
  
_ Oh my god, he thinks I’m a furry.  _   
  
“No! You don’t look like one! I’ve seen furries before. And I’m not—A furry. I’m not,” he sucks in a breath to elaborate, “it’s just one time I got set up on a blind date with a guy who was a furry and I haven’t really dated since and I’m just so nervous so my mind just kinda... went back?”   
  
It’s at that moment that Yuuri realizes he’s broken two unspoken speed dating rules within one minute:    
  
#1) Not to make the conversation  _ weird _ and   
  
#2) Don’t talk about your exes, though in his defense the guy wasn’t so much as ex as an almost.   
  
Thomas takes a moment to consider, chin propped onto his hand. “So, you can’t stop thinking about it?”   
  
Yuuri balks indignantly. “What? No.  _ Nonononono _ .”   
  
“I mean that’s perfectly fine, dude. All sorts of people come here. I’ve met a lot of people with… different tastes.”   
  
“B-but I’m not—”   
  
“It’s okay buddy. I won’t judge,” Thomas says, even though he already has. His tone and diction say everything. “Why don’t we talk about something else though?”   
  
The only thing Yuuri can do is exhale a defeated sigh and, because he really wants to stop talking about furries, even if that means he’ll forever be thought of as one, stop trying to convince this man that he doesn’t get off to humanoid animals with bad anatomy.    
  
“Oh and, don’t worry, I’ll keep your secret.” Thomas winks, or tries to, if it can even be called that. If Yuuri has to be completely honest he looks like he’s in pain.   
  
“...Thanks.”   
  
At least, he rationalizes, if only to stop himself from planning his own pseudo-death (The current plans on hold involve Phichit crossdressing, Leo and JJ in a trenchcoat, and an extravagant cliff jump), this date will be over in six minutes, he’ll most likely never see Thomas again, and he’ll have a new chance to talk to someone without them judging his non-existent kink. 

He somehow feels more confident now with his nerves shocked out, and he’s hit rock bottom so how could it get any worse than this?   
  
“So tell me about yourself, Yuuri.”   
  
“Oh, sure. I’m 23 and... I’m a university student majoring in graphic design.”   
  
“That’s nice. I’m 24, and I’m training to become a veterinarian because I love animals.”    
  
“Oh me too!” Yuuri says, happy to find some common ground; he’s itching to pull out his phone to show off his beloved poodle. “I especially love dogs!”   
  
He’s unsure why Thomas gives him a strange look until he receives the reply.   
  
“I’m sure you do, Yuuri... I’m sure you do.”   
  


* * *

  
Georgi’s first date shares his love for romantic movies, museums, and well-brewed coffee—the kind that’s already sweet without sugar or cream. Finding out you click with someone really only takes a few minutes, sometimes just moments. Finding out you fit perfectly might take a whole lifetime, so Georgi discreetly marks down the name “Maria” on his notepad, small sparkles doodled around it, and hopes she does the same with his.   
  
She’s a beautiful woman with long, straight blonde hair and gray eyes that stare right into his as she speaks. Her clear, freckle-free face, filled in with baby fat despite her age of 22, scrunches up in a smile when he asks about what her hobbies are. And she doesn’t wear heavy makeup, or at least not the kind that boldly stands out like the red lipstick he so vividly recalls.    
  
_ She’s nothing like Anya,  _ he catches himself thinking, again.   
  
He does surprisingly well in conversation, even enough to surprise himself. But then, Georgi realizes, he’d always been pretty good in social situations; living between two cousins who rarely think before they speak, or do anything really, only hones this skill—after all, someone had to make peace with the neighbors when they had moved in and didn’t bother to greet any of them, and he’d be damned if it wasn't him.

But even before moving from Russia, going to college, and meeting a lot of the important people in his life, Georgi was someone who had fun talking to people. He’d just felt out of touch with this feeling ever since the breakup and the months following up to it, when he’d been desperately clinging onto the relationship. 

That time felt akin to drowning while at the same time watching himself from an outsider’s perspective, as if he wasn’t entirely himself in scenes where a man is taken from the shore by the uncontrollable waves, bound to witness his breaths leave his lungs and helpless to pull himself out. It would feel ceaseless, pushing him to the surface only to tease his burning lungs that gasped for air, before overwhelming him once more.  
  
By comparison, he feels much better now. More like himself.   
  
They come unexpectedly, those waves, brought upon him by things like finding her abandoned personal effects—some shoes stowed away in the closet, a ceramic cup, one of the silver earrings he’d given her for their second anniversary—or remembering times they’d spent together.   
  
By now, as suddenly as they come and as powerless he is to stop the initial inundation, Georgi notices that the waves don’t, _can’t_ drag him down for long, and he can tread his way back to solid ground faster each time. He waits for the day he’ll sit at the edge of the shore and the water will gently brush his skin.  
  
“So if you could, where would you take someone on a date?” Maria asks.  
  
 _The sea,_ he thinks to himself, laughing at his own bit of cynicism.   
  
“Maybe a movie, or a nice cafe,” he says outloud.  
  
By the end of the date, Georgi’s sure that Maria will mark him down for a match, and he feels he’s off to a pretty good start. He isn’t, however, able to stop himself from comparing. She’s nothing like Anya, no; but the emotions he feels as she describes tidbits of her life to him, big and little things alike, remind him of his first date all over again. She started wearing lipstick, then.  
  
He remembers Anya, shining under the bright fluorescent lighting of the dinky skating rink a bus away from Detroit, putting her professional training to use as she tugs his hand forward; and they talks about their dreams, the both of them just so young and more carefree than they’d ever been. He remembers this like a movie stuck on replay, but submerged in water so that it blurs together with the bitter memories of months ago.   
  
“ _What do you think we’ll be doing a few years from now?_ ” becomes inextricable with “ _Georgi, I’m sorry. I just don’t love you anymore._ ”  
  
He remembers times when they were happy together, too. Times where he would look at her and think (he curses his own romanticism), _Ah,_ _I think I could spend the rest of my life with her_.   
  
Bidding his partner goodbye, Georgi complies with the rotation signal and shuffles over to the next table, which sits at the furthest corner of the spacious room the gathering’s held in. It’s quiet in these intermissions.  
  
There’s an Asian man sitting there with his eyes furrowed, looking frustrated as he wipes down the lenses of his glasses, though he quickly finishes when he hears Georgi’s footsteps draw near. The man shoves his cleaning cloth into a blue dog-patterned case on the table—one that reminds Georgi of a cartoon that used to be popular a decade ago—then puts on his glasses and smiles. He’s attractive in a cute way.   
  
“Hi, I’m—” is all he manages to get out before he chokes. “A-Are you okay!?”  
  
That’s a weird question. Of course he’s okay, so he nods twice.  
  
“Ah, but you’re, um, crying? Are you sure?”   
  
Crying? Georgi angles his neck downwards and touches his face, which, now that he focuses on it, feels strangely hot. Some droplets of water fall to the ground and others warm the skin on his hand, which he stares at dumbly.   
  
“Oh.”

He looks back up at the man’s face, laced with concern. “I Am.”   
  
The other makes a hesitant noise, unsure of how to react to the admittedly strange turn of events, so Georgi takes his seat and assures him, “I’m fine. This happens a lot, actually. You can just ignore it.”   
  
The stranger looks like he wants to say something, shuffling in his seat to release some nervous energy, but Georgi speaks first.   
  
“I’m Georgi Popovich. It’s nice to meet you.”   
  
The conflicted reply is, “I’m Yuuri. And um, I have a handkerchief in my bag, would you like to use it?”   
  
Before he even says anything, Yuuri’s already grabbing his backpack off the floor and rummaging through it, pushing past a pencil bag and a file folder to a hidden pocket on the side. Georgi watches him pull out an embroidered cloth and hold it out towards him, and at this distance he realizes the design is the same as one of the dogs on his glasses case, except not blue, so that he can tell it’s a poodle.

He takes the handkerchief with a word of gratitude and presses it to his eyes. Large damp spots darken the white to gray.

“I have a friend with your name,” Georgi continues the conversation, letting his head roll back so the cloth just sits on his face.

“Really? Are they Japanese too?”

“No, Russian. But I thought it was a funny coincidence.”

Neither of them speak for some time. The only sounds come from other tables’ chatter. Seconds tick by. 

“Um, Georgi...are you feeling okay? I’m not trying to pry or anything but you seem...”   
  
It’s unavoidable after all.

“Sad?” he finishes helpfully when the other is unable to find an accurate descriptor, “I guess I am. It’s nothing though, I just broke up with someone recently.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Georgi says, trying to return the handkerchief when the water finally stops dripping from his eyes. “I just cry very easily.”   
  
“Please, you can keep it. And um, I’m not really sure how to say this.”   
  
“Say what?”   
  
“Well ask, but, are you okay?”   
  
Georgi bobs his head once again.   
  
“I already said that oh god, but I mean more like, are you the kind of person that talks about it, or do you just kinda... let it go? Should I just drop this?”   
  
“Well, the offer to talk about me is very nice, Yuuri, but I don’t want to bore you with something from the past when we have so little time.”   
  
“Oh no, it’s not boring. I’m sorry if I’m being nosy though,” Yuuri replies, scratching at the back of his downturned neck and looking at him hesitantly through messy bangs. “I’m really not trying to pity you or anything. I hate when people do that to me. I just know some people feel better when they talk and… You seem like you’ve got it rough.”    
  
“You’re very kind.” He can’t help but smile, propping himself up on the table with one arm, when Yuuri burrows deeper in his puffy jacket, denying the compliment as if it were an accusation. The bashfulness reminds Georgi of the first time he caught Yura cooing at the stray cats near the communal trash area, back when he was starting to grow into his rebellious period.   
  
“But instead of me, why don’t we talk about you?”   
  
“Me?”   
  
“Yes, you. Tell me about yourself.”

“Ah well, there’s not that much to me… I also cry easily, though,” he says, “Like when I’m sad or happy or angry. Loose tears ducts.” He taps at his glasses for emphasis, and the motion elicits a small grin from each of them. They share a look, an admission of camaraderie.   
  
“I’m the same. Any hobbies?”   
  
“I like to... cook, and do art.”   
  
“Oh? What kind? Do you work with textiles?” he asks, waving the handkerchief Yuuri gave him, “I have a friend who designs clothes.”  
  
“Graphic design, actually, but I can do a little bit of that—and I like illustration too. How about you?”   
  
“Hmmm, I can sing and make great coffee. Do you like coffee?”

“I think I like tea better, but coffee’s nice every once in awhile,” Yuuri tells him. He has the exact same sentiment but switched, since he doesn’t know much about anything other than beans and where to find them.  “Uh, what else do you like to do?” he asks, looking as if he hopes his answer hasn’t offended Georgi. He doesn’t blame him, because there are plenty of pompous “Connoiseurs” that take their drinks and themselves a little too seriously.

“I love reading. I actually work at a publishing company, though I'm only an assistant editor.”   
  
“Oh, I love reading too. And that’s pretty amazing! I’m 23 but I’m still in college,” Yuuri admits, sheepishly rubbing his neck again.    


“Well, I’ve got a whole two years on you, I’m 25 already.”

“Oh wow, you seem younger than that.”

“Maybe it’s the haircut?”

Georgi did always like to take care of his appearance, though he wonders if his date is just being polite since he saw his own dark eye bags before going out, and only got to cover them with concealer in Viktor’s car. Not even well at that; because trying to apply makeup in a moving vehicle is like staring into the sun: difficult, unproductive, and entirely too painful (especially on the particularly bumpy roads).   
  
The concealer was probably washed away by his tears, anyways.

The two of them start off slowly, but soon quickly shoot back and forth about a multitude of topics that included favorite foods, colors, school and work, and animals they liked. He’s amused by the fact that Yuuri’s family owns a toy poodle back in his hometown that looks like a miniature Makkachin, and that Yuuri designed all his dog-printed paraphernalia himself.

“So why did you end up going to college so… late, I guess might be the word, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Well, I got my GE, but then I felt burned out because I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do, so I ended up taking a gap year and going back to Japan.”

He doesn't want to interrupt, so he nods to let the bespectacled man know he’s listening.

“Before I decided on majoring in graphic design, I was gonna go into accounting. But I hate math!” he declares, arms spreading wide to try to encapsulate the feeling.  This is why I’m an art major!”    


Georgi can’t hold back his chuckling, and Yuuri smiles back at him.

“So how did you know you wanted to do art?”

“It’s a long story and I’m sure I’m gonna ramble…”

“I don’t mind.”

“Well, I’ve always been interested in it and I was pretty good at drawing, but mostly... anime style, I guess? That's what a lot of people call it. But anyways, then an author I like said he was looking for someone to illustrate the reprint of a novel… and it kinda reminded me I liked it. So at first I was thinking of animation but it’s competitive both here and Japan, and I can’t even remember how but, uh, I somehow ended up switching majors to graphics design.”

He places his hands one over the other on the table. “During the gap year I ended up doing a lot of different jobs, but art college is pretty expensive so I guess it worked out.”

“What kinds of jobs did you do? I’m curious.”

“Well I already told you my family runs an onsen right? So I helped out there, and I was also an English tutor on weekends. And I had a part time job as a skating instructor for children. Ah, I forgot to mention I used to skate in juni—”

_ Oh, skating. Reminds me of Anya. _   
  
“—or competitions... Umm, Georgi, are you alright?”   
  
“Oh, yes,” he says, startled, “sorry I spaced out, what was that last part?”

“Junior competitions,” Yuuri replies slowly, looking at him with the same worried face he’d first been greeted with. 

_Junior competitions_ , He thinks, memories flickering like the neon lights of that skating rink—not well-maintained, but beautiful in nostalgia. _Anya’s old competition videos were so beautiful, I miss watching them. I miss her._

Oh; there’s the wave.   
  
Nothing prepares either of them, or the rest of the entire room for that matter, for the ungodly shriek of “ _ ANYAAAAAAA _ ” that rips itself out of his throat, or the sudden barrage of tears that come with it.

His poor date is extremely flustered by his outburst, probably wondering what he said wrong, but he leaps to his feet in an instant, circling his arms around Georgi’s shoulders in an attempt to calm him down. 

“I just miss her so much,” Georgi sobs, and right now he doesn’t quite have the mind to worry about how uncomfortable Yuuri must feel as he cries about his ex for the second time tonight. Later on, he'll be grateful that Yuuri doesn't say any of the usual words of comfort like, “this will pass” or, “you’re better off without her”—they’ve never helped, at least not for Georgi—and instead simply tightens his grip and waits for the tide to ebb.

The whimpers of, “ _ Anya _ ,” that grow softer and softer with each iteration are lost in Yuuri’s shoulder, along with the rest of his cries, until they eventually become silent. When that happens, he just clenches his teeth, lets his tears fall freely.

It’s a minute or two later that his mind returns to some form of self-consciousness and humility, although he’s still a sniffling mess.

He’s not sure what to say. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Yuuri replies into his hair, then slowly releases his hold, “it’s okay to cry.” Georgi wants to laugh about the deja vu he experiences with this exchange, but all that comes out is a mocking sigh in imitation. 

A familiar clanging resounds throughout the room.

Georgi watches people say goodbye. “I guess it’s time for me to go,” he says, turning to leave, but Yuuri grabs him by the hand before he gets too far.

“Will you... be okay?”   
  
“—Wait, no, um,” he interrupts himself, “I should really… I had fun talking with you… I hope to see you again, Georgi.” 

He can’t tell if it’s entirely honest, or if this man says it out of pure sympathy, but as Yuuri looks into his red-rimmed eyes with an unmistakable air of sincerity, Georgi can’t help but appreciate the compassion in those words.

“Yes, that would be lovely.”  
  
He lets go and steps forward, ready to try again.


	4. The Illiad, Shakespeare, and You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They fic now has an estimated end point (subject to change) as well as updated pairings! I think it also finally passes the Bechdel test. If you don't like MilaSara you can skip the second part of this chapter.
> 
> That being said I might update a bit more slowly because winter break is over :')

A terrifying banshee scream (one that Viktor is intimately acquainted with) disrupts all forms of civilized conversation in the room, and most of the uninvolved bystanders left disoriented by the noise _would_ have been able to pinpoint the culprit as Georgi, had it not been for the following events:

Clyne, who’s been making moves on Viktor, even going so far as to touch him despite his many, many dismissals, whistles. “What a scream. But I bet I could make you scream louder,” he says, and to Viktor, the innuendo sounds like torture. Literally.  
  
Suddenly, two strangers enter the scene.

“Excuse me, but are you Clyne Johnson?” one of them asks, voice booming, and the man in question begins to look visibly nervous.

Viktor can only think,  _of course his last name would be slang for dick. He is one._ _  
_

The other stranger introduces herself and her partner as “workers in the building.” Now, not all bouncers are ripped, but these two definitely are, and caught under their pressing stares, Clyne gives his confirmation.

“Sorry to interrupt your date.” Viktor scoffs at that. “...We’ve received a complaint about unsolicited harassment, and we need to ask you to come with us peacefully.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong, though. Isn’t this a mistake?”

As they discuss his guilt, Viktor looks over to the table before his, because only one person could have reported Clyne. The handsome Latino man sitting there makes eye contact, so Viktor gives him a nod to show his gratefulness and respect, along with a quick thumbs up that is mimicked and sent back. If he could, he would name his next protagonist after this hero.

The bouncers have been explaining to Clyne that yes, they monitor inappropriate physical contact, they have eyes. By now most gazes in the room are on table #3, Georgi is forgotten, and people have forgone talking to gossip under their breaths, except for a few in the back who are too far away to hear what’s happening.

Suddenly, two strangers enter the scene. Again.

Judging by their uniforms, they’re law authorities—or very elaborate strippers, Viktor’s seen it happen before—and they approach the table with a staunch swiftness that makes Clyne tense up even further.

“Clyne Johnson?” one says, but it’s more of a statement than a question. He produces an official state mandated badge.  
  
_Not strippers then._ _  
_

A hush falls over the room. People wait with bated breaths, but other than that only a camera shutter and a small ' _ah fuck_ ' following can be heard. Everyone else is smart enough to have their phones on silent, pressing the record buttons.

“...You are under arrest for several accounts of forgery and one charge of embezzlement.”

The room thrums with the kind of excitement that can only be found in the midst of drama. While smug after the first turn of events and ever more pleased by the second, Viktor is mostly unfazed by the atmosphere—this type of thing somehow happens a lot in his life, whether it revolves around him personally or occurs in his vicinity.

Just last week he’d witnessed his least favorite set director and his least favorite male model get into a scuffle, knocking down strobe lights and an unsuspecting cameraman as they rolled over each other on the floor. Eventually, the fight ended when one of them stood up and promptly got caught in the circuit wires along the wall, cutting off the power for the temporary spotlights on the ceiling and rendering an almost total darkness. It was _delight_ ful. 

In present time, as the police recite his Miranda Rights while moving past the bouncers, Clyne stands up and moves slowly towards them as well, head hung low and arms limp, seemingly resigned, before he breaks out into a sudden sprint for the door.

He probably would’ve gotten further, though not by much since he had four well-trained individuals in his path, had Viktor not reflexively caught the back of his coat, forcing both of them to topple over, chair and all.

When telling this story at dinner later in the night (where it would earn him a round of satisfying groans), Viktor would say he felt in _clyne_ d to, so he just _grabbed_ at the chance, but unfortunately he wasn’t too _chairfall._ In later retellings of the tale, Viktor would abandon the third piece of wordplay since it was too much of a stretch for ‘careful’, and instead refine the ending as, “the police handcuffed him and took him away. Clyne was under _arrest_ , and I could finally take _a rest._ ” 

Right after hitting the floor, one policeman holds the struggling criminal still while the other binds his hands together behind his back, and soon they’re on their to a police cruiser behind the building, giving their condolences to the employees. The entire thing takes less than two minutes.

The bouncers help Viktor up and check him for any injuries, but he’s basically fine—Clyne broke his fall with his back.

Clyne might have broken his back. 

The loud clanging that signifies the end of the second round reminds everyone that they came here to speed date, not spectate, and although conversation gravitates around the recently transpired events, people rotate as normally as the Earth around the sun.

There’s an uneven number in the room now, so Viktor motions for the woman coming his way to skip his table, looking forward to some time to himself for recuperation.

While he can, he’s thinking of noting down some of the ideas in his head, fueled by the last interaction. He unlocks his phone, fingers swiping across the screen so that he can open his phone notepad and bask in the tranquility of not being harassed.

A line in, the phone beeps with his message tone; it’s Mila, and he taps on the text but isn’t able to read it due to someone passing the handsome Latino man at table 2, sitting at the empty chair in front of Viktor, and making him lock his phone before he can. He supposes it’s not the stranger’s fault.

He looks up to find a younger looking brunet, who smiles at him and introduces himself with an outreached hand and a, “Hi, my name’s Thomas, but you can call me Tom for short.”  


* * *

  
Seven minutes pass in a conventional manner.

Her date is an archaic type of tacky, average-looking (for her standards, though most of her family and friends are exceptionally beautiful people so the bar is sky high), has a bright future—in his own words at least, and dreadfully bores the living hell out of her.

Moral support. That’s what Mila came for, but it doesn’t mean she’s not supposed to enjoy herself or walk out not feeling like an absolute princess. She doesn’t actually believe in things like fairytales, love at first sight, and damsels in distress needing to be saved, but at the very least she prays she’ll meet someone less… ehh, is the kindest way to put it, than the one currently in front of her.

She hopes, if nothing else, that Georgi is enjoying himself. The guy definitely needs it.

“Maybe I’ll see you around, babyface,” her date says. That and the cheesy finger gun he shoots at her are clear indication that he’ll be marking her down, and just to be polite Mila smiles, but knows she won’t do the same. Her notepad contains no mention of his name, anyways, just a ranked list of her favorite stray cats that live in Yura’s neighborhood. They’re all #1.

When the next person comes and sits down, Mila has to do a doubletake and then just outright stare, because what is such a beautiful woman even doing in a place like this?   
  
Granted, she herself is a beautiful woman who came with Georgi, a beautiful man, and Viktor Nikiforov, a literal model, but that’s because they wanted a situation with a highly controlled amount of social interaction. They even chose the Speed Dating company that held sober meetings for that sake, and they’re _Russian_.

“Hi,” the woman says, smiling as she pushes some errant strands of hair behind her ear, “I’m Sara. Sara Crispino. How are you?”

“Good, better now. I’m Mila.”

“Mila… it’s a pretty name,” she says it like she can’t help it, and Mila returns the sentiment, enjoying the way the name Sara rolls off her tongue.  
  
“Excuse me for asking, but your hair’s so beautiful, is it naturally that color?” Sara asks, and in Mila’s mind this date is already leagues above the last.

Both had started with a compliment, but the first guy’s was a bad pick-up line that he probably found on the internet. Someone along the lines of being a broom and sweeping her off her feet or whatever, but by the way the date was going he might as well have been one and it _still_ would’ve had more personality—not that he seemed to notice. He was too busy talking about himself.

“Oh, no, it’s dyed.” Mila runs her hand through her bangs to show the brown roots, unnoticeable without close examination.

“It’s such a lovely shade of red. It suits you.” She’s glad she got it done at a salon instead of asking her school friends this time. There’s a reason hair dyeing services could cost the monetary equivalent of an arm and a leg.

“I think your hair is beautiful too,” Mila replies, rubbing her fingers together. It looks so soft… She wonders, out loud, “would you mind if I touch it?”   
  
Smiling, Sara says, “sure, go ahead,” and leans forward so Mila can run her fingers over the silky strands, marveling at it openly. Her own hair, while styled immaculately, is somewhat damaged from the dye and has yet to fully revive from conditioning products.   
  
Mila loves talking to people like Sara, who say nice things because they really mean it, and not just pure flirting. It can be so much easier to give and take compliments from people who understand there’s a difference between them, cause there’s been too many “gentlemen,” and some ladies, she’ll admit, who’ve barraged her with flattery to make themselves seem magnanimous.     
  
After judging that she’s been playing with Sara’s hair a little too long (it really is as soft as it looks), Mila pulls back, smiles, and begins an anecdote. “...You know, I know someone who gets asked if his hair is dyed all the time, and he always answers with the exact same pun.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“it’s like ‘It’s naturally that color, but isn’t it’...?” she starts, switching to her best impression of the man, voice deep and smooth as it can possibly go.

“...to _dye_ for?” Sara cuts in, flipping her hair for the dramatic flair. The extravagance of the motion is perfect.

“Exactly!” she says, unable to stifle a snort, and the two burst out in fits of uncontrollable laughter. Eventually she calms down, but then Sara looks her in the eye and makes her own nasal sound, louder than the last, and it starts all over again. When Mila manages to come down from her high, doubled over, cheeks pained from being outstretched for so long, she asks, “so what do you do, anyways, Sara?”

Holding back the last of her own giggles, she answers, “well, I’m a college student, but I graduate this year, how about you?”

“I’m still in my second year. I’m majoring in engineering.”

“Wow! That’s so cool! I do English. Journalism. What is it that you like about it?”

“The money,” Mila jokes at first, but then follows up with the fact that it’s just fun for her, engaging even, and that she loves proving her worth to some of the more—there’s no way to mince it—sexist people she knows, so she’ll get through running on pure spite if she has to. Across from her, Sara looks both amused and impressed, and she really is. Partially because it's impressive and wonderful (both Sara's words), and partially because she feels the same way in some respects.

This is how Mila ends up hearing the story of Sara’s well-meaning but overly-attached brother, and finally gets an answer for why this goddess on Earth is at a speed dating gathering.

Michele, or Mickey as she calls him, her older brother by a few minutes, would deter any potential suitors, sometimes even friends, with his intense helicoptering and interrogation. He insists to meet anyone she’s interested in for any reason, whether it be a lab partner or a kind stranger returning a lost item. Once, the mailman. If he could catch wind of it at the university they attended, he’d even show up at her dates, which led to a whole barrel of awkwardness for everyone.

At this point, it’s just too much. While Sara respects and loves him, she’s already 22, and no longer needs someone to protect her from ‘bullies’ or people who would ‘take advantage of her’ like when they were younger. They both need to live their lives; she’s just unsure of how to convey that concept.

So here she is to spring through a bunch of unfamiliar faces in one go, hopefully going home with a ton of matches. Even if Michele does find out about this, and he will probably will because she’s told a few people already, he won’t be able to intrude so easily with those buff bouncers at the door. In any case, she’ll still get a night out without his intervention.

Mila listens to the story with fervent attention, and gives her condolences when Sara finishes with a huff, pouting.

“Sorry for ranting.”

“It’s fine. Listening to you is nice.”  
  
The bashful grin she receives only makes it better.

Like every good speed date should go, they talk about some lighter things as well.

A lot can fit in the span of just a few minutes, like lifestyles, music, and a mini debate about what Superhero shows and movies are actually good renditions and not just mediocre pandering to fulfill capitalistic agendas, only successful because they’re based on an already-established fanbase (Mila’s date is especially passionate about the subject).

Sara cuts herself off in the middle of, “Winter Soldier was—” to say, “Shit. Hide me,” and ducks low, trying to use Mila as a shield. She turns around slowly, as discreetly as someone with bright red hair can, to see a man at the entrance who’s buddying up with the bouncers. They seem to be having a nice chat, standing around and laughing while Sara groans internally and out.

“Is that...?”

“Yep. It’s my brother. Didn’t think it’d happen this fast.”

They watch as a man from the tables goes up to them and says something with a look of worry on his face, and the bouncers, perhaps deeming Michele less important, wave him off to the sign-in desk. While the brother and the receptionist start a conversation, the man tells the bouncers something that makes them approach the tables in the front, shoulders squared in a show of powerful intimidation.

Suddenly, a high-pitched scream that sounds like chickens bawking in agony rings out, and Mila can’t help but feel it sounds familiar, though she can’t place her finger on why. Right after, one of the bouncers loudly proclaims something that she can’t quite hear and all eyes flow to the source of the voice like moths to a flame. Then they’re arguing. Some guy in the front is really pissing them off, and even from here she can hear them accost him sarcastically.

So much is happening at once that it’s annoying to think, and at this point in time the only thing Mila knows is that all of it is getting in the way of her ever-decreasing time with Sara. There’s a distinct period of silence that makes her uncomfortable, and she’d much rather fill it with conversation, which doesn’t seem possible with her brother at the door and whatever the hell is going on in front.   
  
It’s stifling here.  

“Hey…” Mila whispers softly, leaning over the table to the woman taking shelter behind the tablecloth and her shadow. She looks up.

“Yeah?”

“Well, I was thinking… wanna get out of here? If you’re okay with that, I mean.”

Sara ponders for a moment, shifting her vision towards the escalating situation at table #3, her brother, and then back to the awaiting Mila. A smile blooms gradually on her lips, unable to contain joy with just a hint of mischief, and if Mila were half as poetic as Viktor or romantic as Georgi, then perhaps she could write a book of sonnets on this woman that she barely knows but admires all the same. She gets as far as, s _he’s like warm, sparkling sunshine... and kittens._

“You know what, I’d love to.”

They don’t even need to wait for an opening, because as soon as Sara gives her consent, like some kind of divine intervention telling them it’s meant to be, two cops enter the room—Mila always thought the police’s and her destiny would intertwine someday, and she’d be running away, just not like this.

Everyone else in the room has tunnel vision as the two stalk towards the door, though surprisingly Michele isn’t even looking at the cops because he’s too busy yelling at the receptionist. “For the last time, I’m looking for my sister! Who knows what kind of creep she's talking to!?”

Mila glances at him in passing, finding that the siblings look extremely similar despite being only fraternal twins; there’s a likeness in the curves of their noses, the way light sets a glow around them, those deep eyes that refract blue and violet hues, and although Mila has never been great with describing things like this, she sees a liveliness in them, in _her_ especially, that makes her feel, well... alive.

Right as they exit the room, Sara takes her hand in her own and breaks out into a run, their unbound laughter filling up and echoing down the empty hallways without a care, and they don’t stop until they reach outside where the sun has yet to set and the cold air reminds them of a freedom they’d been missing.

As they adjust to the temperature, Sara catches her breath and asks, “so what now, Mila?”

The redhead crosses her arms in thought, and to retain some of her quickly-fading body heat. She unwraps her jacket from her waist and pushes her arms through the sleeves while replying, “Hmmm…Wanna go find somewhere to sit and talk?”

“I’m down. Ooh, there’s a great place on Ferring Street! Fresh coffee and really great pastries. I get discounts there.”

It sounds familiar… oh, that’s the street they always pass to get to the square with foreign cuisine. The one with way too many bakeshops that are good for the soul but terrible for the wallet, though for Sara’s excited grin, tonight she could make an exception. “I think I know what place you’re talking about. On the street corner? The one with the pink sign?”

“That’s the one,” Sara says with a snap. Finger gun. It’s cute when she does it.

As they begin walking, Mila remembers something important. “Oh, but I need to use my phone for a second. I forgot I came here with people and wanna let them know I left.”

“Sure. Do you need the exact address?”

“No, it’s fine, “ she says, pressing at the screen. She writes that she’s perfectly okay, hasn’t been abducted, and is headed for the pastel-colored cafe a block away from the restaurant they were planning to eat at. At the end she adds, “Tell Georgi I still love him for me, and don’t tell your stories without me I wanna hear about all the weirdos.”

A second later the phone is dumped into her purse and they’re on their way once more, continuing the interrupted chat about movies and tv and just what it is that makes a hero.

When the cold prompts it, Mila asks to hold hands again; so they do, both ending up warmly intertwined in the pocket of Sara’s hoodie.

“You know what?” the redhead asks, watching the day gradually dim into night, street lamps illuminating the path in a pale orange glow.

“What? Is it about me roasting the last episode?”

“No, not that. I mean they tried, but I agree the finale was terrible. Anyways, just wanted to tell you... I’m having a lot of fun.”

Sara smiles.

 _How many lines are even in a sonnet?_  
  
“Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](https://apalettefullofyou.tumblr.com/) Please come talk to me, doesn't even gotta be Yoi tell me about your day send me your favorite color or something
> 
> And would you prefer Yuri or Phichit next chapter?


	5. Arrows are Outdated, Cupid's got a Gun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #Phichit is the best

“I'll see you later,” Phichit says with a wave of his hand, and those are his last words to Yuuri before he swaggers into the waiting lounge.   
  
The space is about the same size as the makeup room at the university, except it appears larger, missing the hustle-and-bustle of costume changes and frantic preparation. A more accurate descriptor might be less cluttered, since the only furnishings here are some worn faux-leather benches, chairs, and potted plants he’s sure are too vibrant to be real, all lined up against the clinically white walls.

His pet hamsters peer up at him from his lock screen, telling him it’s only a few minutes until the event starts with their cute, beady eyes, and relief that they arrived on time sets in; they really cut it close.

But, he’ll admit, it’s both their faults.

Before arrival, Phichit insists on getting Yuuri’s makeup done _juuuust_ right, going so far as to enlist JJ’s girlfriend, who frequently helps out during school musicals and plays, for the job. She’s as meticulous as she is masterful (you can’t rush greatness).   
  
Frankly, Yuuri is already a hot commodity, but the makeover gives him a much-needed confidence boost to go along with the stunning accentuation of his eyes. Plus this way he can’t insult himself, because as readily as he would in regular circumstances, he’d rather eat his own boots than call himself ugly in Isabella’s handiwork.

On the other hand, keyed-up and getting ready to run away to live out the remainder of his life in a solitary Alaskan cabin, Yuuri employs a number of tactics to prolong his fate. This includes, but is in _no way_ limited to, trying to talk Phichit out of it for the hundredth time, hiding his favorite eyeliner pen, though at that point the man is just being petty, and just before setting out, panicking and saying he forgot how to tie his shoes—his boots don’t even _have_ laces.

Anyone with eyes can tell he’s nervous.

Anyone without eyes would probably be able to smell his fear. Sometimes he sweats when he’s nervous.  
  
It’s been a long time since Yuuri’s has a good dating experience, or a dating experience in general, and he’s certain only that he’ll mess up, which is a self-fulfilling prophecy if Phichit’s ever seen one.   
  
His arduous history, wrought with social anxiety, is the reason Phichit suggested speed dating in the first place: one-on-one would be easier than other social gatherings, and since people rotate quickly, it wouldn’t be too bad if he happens to royally screwed up (like he thought he would). Everything, in the end, is for the greater good; and by that he means trying to inflate Yuuri’s ego to the minimal size for a functional human being, and possibly finding him someone he can be comfortable with in the process.   
  
And so here they are, or here Phichit is. They’d signed up for different groups so that they wouldn’t meet the same people, and so that they could congregate and confer at some point in the night.   
  
Now that he’s made it to this room, there’s not quite enough time to update Twitter and the lightning is too disgusting for Instagram, so the only thing left to do is look through the scattered crowd. Phichit moves toward the back, wondering if any of these people are nice and if Yuuri would like them, though right now he’s just picking out the hot ones.   
  
A lot of the people outside could be described as pretty, though that’s the most humble description he can think of. The pool of rotators here is comprised of an equal amount of high-quality faces, each one of them worthy of a skyscraper billboard ad.   
  
_First of all, there’s me._

Not to toot his own horn (or saxophone, the sexiest woodwind) but on a scale of 1 to 10, with cheekbones contoured and eyeliner winged to perfection this fine afternoon, Phichit rates himself flawless—he’s mostly kidding, but he’s at least probably a 9.   
  
After exchanging some casual greetings with the people closest to the entrance, he slinks further into the room, getting a better look at some of the people he’d only seen from afar.   

There’s a woman with dark hair, clear skin, and one of the most interesting eye colors Phichit has ever seen, and her beauty overshadows the fact she’s in a hoodie and sweats. Making amiable conversation with her is a tall, similarly attractive man in a burgundy coat, and they easily draw attention from the crowd just talking about recent newscasts. Judging from their accents, Phichit infers the first is Italian and the second is some type of Slavic. Russian, perhaps?   
  
Past them, there’s a cute woman in a turtleneck knit sweater, a pair of men who look like they could be brothers, he’s unsure, and a few other honorable mentions.   
  
It’s not a bad selection like Phichit was worried it might be. He’s heard a lot of bad rumors—mainly from the internet, some from college acquaintances—about Speed Dating, though a lot of the accounts seemed to be making up or playing up their experiences for shock value.

Stories like: everyone who does this is ugly-as-sin or average at best, over-emotional people on the rebound, having to deal with narcissistic ‘lady’s men’ or ‘nice guys’ (basically the same tuna in a different can, though this one is believable), under or overaged people who sneak in, and even being solicited for sex. Crazy, isn’t it?

Speed Dating is an activity that tends to get a bad rep for being full of weirdos and people with subpar hygiene, but so far everyone looks normal. So far they look better than good, too.  
  
That being said, Phichit is fully aware that his best friend places very little emphasis on a potential partner’s appearance, even though with his specs he _totally_ could. 

Most of it stems from the fact that he cares deeply, too deeply if you’d ask anyone who knows him well enough, about sparing people’s feelings, so he would give anyone a chance even if he doesn’t actually find them attractive.

Holding the position of roommate and bestie nearly three years running, Phichit can say with confidence that he holds a lot of grievances to himself—like with that disastrous date months ago where the other guy turned out to be a furry. Even worse, he commented that Yuuri’s dog was sexy. His dog. SEXY.   
  
And his hair, oh Jesus, was speckled with severe dandruff, so that each movement triggered a white Christmas. When he talked he spit out bits of unchewed food, and kept saying “my Black friend” when referring to his one apparent Black friend (it was up in the air whether he actually had one or not), and not knowing what to do, Yuuri just nervously laughed along, trying to get through the night. Sadly, the guy took his resignation as a green light and eventually tried to show Yuuri his extensive photo reel of explicit fursuit sex, customized dick holes and all.

That night, Yuuri had come back sullen and shaky, only letting himself say, “it didn’t work out,” and retiring to bed without spilling any of the deets. Prying proved futile for weeks.

The whole story wasn’t revealed until the man got wasted at a party and proceeded to release months, or perhaps years, of repressed anger, sadness, and grade-A shittalking. Half of it was about his most recent date; and as the person who set it up, JJ spent a whole hour apologizing. Stereotype confirmed. This scene and more are forever recorded in Phichit’s mind (and phone) as some his fondest birthday memories—the cherry on top being the pleasure of recounting the events to a sober, increasingly mortified Yuuri the next day.

The point stands that, had it not been for the magnificent soul (the dorm manager) who brought in wine easily mistakable for sparkling cider, Yuuri would’ve never said the things he had that night. He’d only ever been witnessed chewing out complete assholes, but everyone else got the benefit of the doubt no matter how... disturbing their tendencies.

He’s afraid that he’ll hurt someone due to insensitivity, unable to even _think_ of making someone miserable for something not entirely in their control, and that he “surely” isn’t in a place to judge from.

It’s a whole philosophy based off an entire life’s worth of inconsolable empathy, but even then Yuuri, sweet sweet Yuuri, has never once seen himself as someone to be admired for this kindness.

The denial and downplay applies to every single aspect about him, personality and appearance being the clearest victims. Despite all the assurance that he isn’t, Yuuri thinks he’s average, plain, _boring,_ which is probably the most inane thing Phichit has ever heard, because Yuuri is wonderful in thousands of ways.     
  
Very little understanding exists among their group, sans Yuuri’s baffling perspective, about how a man that acts and looks like _that_ could ever think he was plain or, god forbid, ugly in any sense of the word—for someone who insists that there’s no single standard for lovability, for aesthetics, and that everyone is beautiful in some way, he has no tolerance for himself and it just breaks Phichit’s heart.   
  
Over the years he’s learned Yuuri’s never had as many friends as he does now, but from what he says and easy observation, the explanation lies more in the fact that the older man avoids people, both subconsciously and un, than an actual defect in his personality.

To this day, someone might so much as say ‘hi’ and he’ll become a rock, or he’ll accidentally blurt out something dumb and proceed to make plans to run away to Minnesota, or he’ll just straight up avoid people when his anxiety convinces him he’d be unwanted, so he tries to fade into a quiet obscurity.

It’s become Phichit’s welcome duty to drag him out of the shadows and remind him of his amazingness everyday, even if Yuuri has yet to fully believe it. Thankfully, he’s getting there, somewhat. Little babysteps. A few days ago he agreed with Leo that he was talented, and almost made Phichit tear up.    
  
But to put into perspective how ridiculous his self-hatred is, Phichit can’t name a single decent person that has ever disliked Yuuri, while in contrast there are at least 20 people on campus he knows, personally, that have liked him or have an active crush on him now.  
  
Yuuri is the sole individual both JJ and Isabella, in the case one of them ever dies in a freak accident and leaves a widow, said they’d be okay with the other remarrying—which is both mildly disturbing and extremely telling considering how much the two love each other. They’re getting married next year.

And obviously, Phichit adores Yuuri too, and vice versa. After all, how can they call themselves best friends if they aren’t at least a little in love? Though his definition is more familial than anything, he will do whatever is in his power to see Yuuri be happy.  
  
_I wonder if this is what being a parent feels like_ , he muses, despite the fact that he’s three years younger. _They grow up so fast._

Phichit passes by a woman with extravagant curls, like the kind you’d see in a 1960s shoujo manga, and tells her, “nice hair.” They must have taken decades to style and set, and efforts in presentation are something Phichit deeply appreciates.

After a minute of walking and talking with passing faces, he reaches at the end of the room, checks his phone: it’s just a minute left until the event starts. An anticipatory sigh escapes his lips as he slides the phone back into his pocket, but then something catches the corner of his eye, and it turns into a gasp with the realization that someone’s sitting in the farthest corner, head lowered into a well-worn hardcover book.

The stranger, sitting smack-dab in the middle of the bench, had gone unnoticed until now. It’s unusual for Phichit’s hawk-like eyes, always on the prowl for the next big thing in even the smallest details, to overlook someone, but the man sitting there seems to materialize out of the air like a phantom.

From this angle, one of the two things he can discern is the fact that this man has some of the best eyebrows he’s ever seen, comparable to any of the legends in his immediate group of friends (Yuuri has the best natural arch while Leo held for texture. He and JJ tied in terms of strength).

The second thing is the novel he’s reading—Phichit recognizes it as a piece by one of Yuuri’s favorite authors. It’s one he’ll reread ever so often, at least twice a year, because, “ _there’s so much subtext! I always find something new_ . _”_   
  
He moves closer to the solitary man, noting the silent grace he exudes as he turns a page, and wonders why he’s sitting here, alone, instead of mingling like the others in the crowd. Absently, he wonders if the man realizes his space has been invaded when the edges of their shadows overlap.   
  
“Hey, is that ‘ _Stammi Vicino_ ’?” Phichit asks even though he knows it is, and despite his curiosity, he’s regretful to break the man out of his concentration. As for the book, he’s never actually read it himself, but he has dabbled in short stories by the same guy.   
  
In acknowledgment of his presence, two calloused yet practiced hands push the book’s ends together with a quiet thump, and the stranger slowly, slowly raises his face to meet Phichit’s smile.   
  
It’s at that exact moment that a choir of angels begins to sing out and bells sound out in accompaniment, but in reality the clanging noise is actually the official beginning of the gathering and people are making their way out the door to find a place to sit.   
  
“...Yes,” the stranger answers, expression stiff, perhaps even nervous, as he slips the novel into his bag.

“It’s starting...”  
  
He stands and runs a hand through his silky raven hair, robbing Phichit of the mental capacity to continue the conversation. His eyes are such a dark brown— _gray?_ that they’re almost black.

How in the world did he not notice this man before? He’s handsome. Gorgeous.

 _Super hot fire_ .   
  
And he’s also walking away. The expression on his face is strained but not with anger, rigid but not with loathing, and it’s starting to get confusing in its indecipherability.

The guy moves so quickly that Phichit only catches up to him at the door, where they’re impeded by the crowd.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Phichit,” he says, tapping the man on the shoulder since he seems fixated on the air straight ahead. He twitches.

The stranger turns around to stare at him intensely—with a hint of... embarrassment? If Phichit’s instincts are correct, which makes very little sense—then turns back to the door and says something that knocks the air right out of him.

“I know.”  
  
The meaning is unclear as he walks out, until Phichit realizes his sweatshirt is printed in the university’s insignia.   
  
_Oh...OH._  


* * *

  
By some turn of fate, they end up at tables just a few spaces apart in neighboring rows. ‘ _20,_ ’ the placard in front of him reads.   
  
He can spot Yuuri all the way in the other corner, awkwardly making conversation with a guy who Phichit had greeted a minute ago. Tim or something. He can’t remember much about him besides his overly tight grip during their handshake.   
  
His own date introduces himself and asks, “so what’s your name?”   
  
He’s handsome, but after seeing that other guy Phichit comes to the conclusion that he might be ruined for beauty forever.   
  
“It’s Phichit.”   
  
“Phichit. Is that Cambodian or something?”

“Close actually. I’m from Thailand.”  
  
To be completely honest, he’s _gone_ halfway through the conversation, stuck between worrying for his best friend who’s looking more and more frazzled as the minutes pass and glancing back at the beautiful man just meters away; if it’s any consolation to himself, the man returns his gaze every other time, and Phichit thinks he might have seen him concede the hint of a dazzling smile.   
  
He can’t fully concentrate on his next two dates either, which he knows is rude, but to be fair a lot happens in a short span of time.  
  
During the second session, there’s a piercing sound resembling nails scratching a chalkboard, but run through a megaphone for volume, and when he looks for the source he sees Yuuri consoling a hysterical crying man. Right that second, some other drama starts at the front of the room, but he’s too far away to understand what and way too preoccupied about his friend to care.   
  
Only when the man, who he recognizes as the one in the burgundy coat from the lounge, calms down does Phichit let his eyes venture, and surprise surprise the police have arrived.   
  
It’s quiet for a second, like the calm before a storm, and everyone pulls out their phones to document the activity. Someone curses when they realize their phone isn’t on silent, and he laughs a bit at that.   
  
During the rising action, two women, one of them the hoodie-clad Italian from the lounge and the other a striking redhead, sneak out of the room when no one, except him, is watching.   
  
_Good for them,_ he mentally applauds. _Ahh, young love._  
  
The man Phichit assumes is a criminal tries to bolt but ends up on the floor, and in record time the cops have him handcuffed and taken away. He switches view. Yuuri and his date have separated from their embrace, and his friend actually looks pretty happy talking to him, even with the stream of tears running down his cheeks.   
  
In the third round. Phichit’s just one rotation away from table 24. His date mate is actually a really good conversation maker, though her general values don’t seem to coincide well with his own. They do, however, share a love for cinema and theatre, so he thinks they could be friends.    
  
A few minutes in, he gets distracted when Yuuri gets up, taking his much shorter date with him, and they talk to the clerk at the front desk--the guy with a nice beard who naturally radiates sunshine. Eventually, after some discussion, Yuuri does come back, but this time he’s alone.  
  
Maybe his date mate would know something about it.  
  
“Hey, what happened to that other guy?” Phichit motions to Yuuri’s table, curiosity getting the better of him. His friend is fidgeting with his phone and doesn’t seem to notice he’s there, even when he waves.  
  
“Oh. I’m not sure,” his current partner, Maria, says, “he didn’t speak very good English, so we weren’t exactly on the same page. He seemed really young though, maybe a foreign exchange student?”  
  
“Hmm, weird.”  
  
“Yeah, I wonder what he was doing trying to speed date here.”  
  
And sooner or later the cymbal sound clangs and Phichit is filling the vacancy at the last table. The dog-print phone in Yuuri’s hands is hastily shoved into his pocket.  
  
“Hi I’m—oh, Phichit it’s you.”  
  
“Yes, ‘tis I. Aren’t you glad to see me though?” he says, posing for dramaticism, and it elicits a small smile from Yuuri, who lays back and lets himself go lax.  
  
“Actually yeah. Didn’t think I’d see you this soon though.”  
  
“Me neither, but I missed you anyways. Sooooo,” he drags in a sing-song tone, “how it going? Like date-wise.”  
  
Yuuri has to take a moment to ponder that, which is a good sign because a Yuuri who’s experienced soaring degrees of shame wouldn’t be able to think at all. “Well, the first one was pretty bad, the second one was pretty cool, and the last guy wasn’t even supposed to be here, so I guess so-so?”  
  
“Wait, what about that last guy?”  
  
“Umm, he was lost.”  
  
“How did he even get in?”  
  
“Phichit, I really don’t know. Magic? By walking?”  
  
“That’s fair, but anyway, tell me about everything. Gimme the hot deets.”  
  
They recount his (mis)adventures. Really, Phichit feels bad for laughing about it, but the summary of the first seven minutes has him in stitches, especially when the irony of it all hits. Despite his worries, Yuuri is actually taking everything in stride, visibly less tense than he was walking in, so he can’t help but feel proud of him for going along with this and putting himself out there.  
  
“Anyways, that’s it for me.” Yuuri finishes with an anecdote of his previous date. Apparently he wasn’t even 20, so the guy at the front desk escorted him away.  
  
“How about you Phichit? Are you...enjoying yourself?” One of his main conditions for coming here was Phichit promising he’d take it seriously for himself, and not just Yuuri, who isn’t the only one who hasn’t dated for a while.  
  
He’d probably feel guilty if he knew most of his time was spent worrying, so Phichit stands up and grabs him by the shoulders.   
  
“That reminds me!”   
  
Phichit swivels Yuuri’s head to the side for him--in a gentle way, not a ‘break your neck’ kinda way.  “There’s this guy here who’s gorgeous, like, you know… like Sofia Vergara level or something.”   
  
“He’s that good looking?”   
  
“Super. Hot. Fire.”   
  
Yuuri gasps.   
  
“Who is it?”   
  
He peers down the aisleway. “You see the table near the other end?”   
  
“Phichit, I’m blind,” he replies, fixing the glasses skewed on his manhandled face.   
  
“It’s the guy in the navy blue. He goes to our school, that’s our sweatshirt! He knows me but I don’t know him!”   
  
Yuuri squints. “Weird, I thought you knew everyone. Oh, I think I see him.”   
  
“Well, I thought so too, but apparently I do not.”   
  
Another gasp.   
  
“Isn’t he beautiful? It should be illegal to be that pretty.”   
  
Yuuri takes Phichit’s hands off his head and looks him in the eye, mouth agape. After a few seconds of staring at each other, he finally finds the nerve to speak.   
  
“Phichit, that’s Seung-gil!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](https://apalettefullofyou.tumblr.com/)


	6. Little Things, Little People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](https://apalettefullofyou.tumblr.com/) Come talk 2 me or something or send a writing prompt so I don't burn myself out writing just this fic

“Yes, that would be lovely.”

Though tears have left Georgi nothing more than a reddened visage, as Yuuri watches him turn away, sadness disclosed only by faintly trembling shoulders—fragile in that moment—as they carry with them the unforgiving weight of an irredeemable past, there is little he can do for him but wish an end to his sorrows; for the wounds to heal, however infinitesimally, with each passing day.  
  
In the future, perhaps he’ll be able to smile, not cry, about former happinesses.

Despite their differences, he feels a fellowship for this man. They share the feeling of being tethered to one place, watching time march on without them. It stops for no one. Though Yuuri has never once cultivated a love so deep and devastating with its loss, he, too, knows the pain of struggling to overcome one’s self:  
  
It starts in adolescence, when communication becomes increasingly difficult with loved ones and strangers alike. Keeping up is hard when everything blurs together and he can’t tell what’s changing, as if he’s stationary in the middle of a crowded intersection. But perhaps it’s himself who’s changed. Perhaps it’s him who’s... different. The issue of identity, of how he sees himself and who he is in the context of the world, slowly permeates his very being. His thoughts are suddenly too acute, too large to be contained in such a premature vessel of the tender age of twelve.

Yuuri has a few close friends from his figure skating circle, of whom he sees little of at school, being younger. They’re kind to him. Still he can never shake the looming dread of not truly belonging where they are, so he pretends to like being by himself; and the people around him begin to believe it as he excuses himself with a too-polite smile, retreating into a terrifying but familiar, almost laughably comfortable, loneliness.  
  
Next to the ice of the only skating rink in town, books, language, and art become his most trusted companions—his confidants on days of self-imposed solitude, his comforts on days the solitude comes to him. It’s easy to escape reality in the span of a thousand eloquent words, easy to find solace in a fictional character who is just like him, and who’s loved, for all their flaws, in ways that feel like a faraway daydream. And if he can’t speak through the words he learns, perhaps he could paint a picture of his thoughts instead (in purple, in blue, in red), as a silent plea for someone to decipher.  
  
Gradually, though it used to give him a sense of purpose, figure skating becomes a lot less about himself and a lot more about impressing everyone else. After a few youth competitions and medals, at the age of fifteen, he quits. Not all at once, but the people around him—his ballet instructor, friends, and family—can tell it no longer makes him happy, and soon the only people who ask why they don’t hear anything more of him are the middle-aged neighborhood wives.

He does return to the rink, every once once in awhile, to clear his mind by skating slow circles in a way that can’t be done by reading. These times, it’s just him and the ice, so he might attempt a jump and fail spectacularly, or succeed miraculously, and be relieved that it’s all for himself.  
  
Learning English doesn’t help with his problem. Not directly, at least, and not in any way he’d know of for years to come. But it opens up new doors for him: brand new perspectives translated to the language from all over the world, and, at seventeen, a newfound favorite author whom he was sure weaved magic into his texts.  
  
At some point he’s nineteen, no longer a boy, back home after little more than a year of community college, and feeling like his world is collapsing, mimicking the aching tightness of his chest. His considerate family lets him rest, tells him to relax, soak in the onsen for as long as he needs, that they’re always supporting him, they love him. But why? He’s a failure. It doesn’t stop the words “useless, pathetic _, disappointment_ ” from clawing out his throat in a compelling mantra only he can hear, so he busies himself with whatever he can and it works for a while; he finds talking to children is easier than adults, and that helps.

It takes an entire year of being tired of his own disappointing weaknesses, coupled with a message from the heavens in the form of a blog post, to find a new direction—in actuality, it’s more like reviving an old dream (in orange, in yellow, in green; though the blue never fades). He bids his family farewell once more, and flies to Detroit to attend art college.  
  
In the blink of an eye he’s twenty, and falls in love.

She doesn’t.  
  
Then he’s twenty-one, and no longer feels so alone. It takes time and no small amount of effort on both their parts, but Yuuri’s roommate understands the kind of person he is, accepts him, helps him realize maybe he _does_ have some significance in lives other than his own, even if he doesn’t see it yet.

This might be the third time in his life that Yuuri falls in love, but he'd never chance at losing someone he’d finally found. “It’s just proximity,” he tells himself, and that’s a part of it, while the other part fades with time and appreciation of what they already have.  
  
Meeting Phichit also introduces him to the entire Theatre Department and the art itself, which bring even more joy into his life.

After, he falls in love again (he easily finds warmth in others), and following hesitation and encouragement from his newfound circle, he confesses his feelings. In a sunny corridor leading to the printing room, it’s the first time they’re ever returned.  
  
He and his boyfriend have “the talk” a week after his birthday, and it only serves to prove that he can’t read people as well as he does books.  
  
That’s a lie.  
  
Noticing the shifts in atmosphere, in behavior, is easy—the furtive glances, the guilt-laden excuses, the crushing silence that says more than words ever could—but confronting them is a Herculean task. It’s much easier to think the problem lies in ignorance rather than negligence, and to blame himself over others.

When he leaves the cafe, it’s only fitting that it’s raining, so he lifts his face towards the sky and lets the downpour drown the taste of salt from his tongue. He was “too heavy,” the man said, among other reasons, and Yuuri can’t help but agree.

Somehow, this hurts him more than breaking up.  
  
His friends hardly let him be alone after that. They take him out, visit more often, even just to sit around and chat about stupid, fun things. He appreciates that they know he’d rather not talk about his feelings. Leo sits on the edge of his bed, back making the slightest contact with his cold legs. In the top bunk, Phichit’s arm hangs over the rails and swings with a steady rhythm, and beneath him Isabella and JJ take a blanket to the floor.

JJ recites a tale about the kid in his and Phichit’s theatre group who had trouble making friends when he’d joined, and who’d taken almost a month to even greet others. “Reminds me of _someone_ ,” Phichit teases lightly, and Yuuri laughs at the quip before firing off his own.  
  
At the age of twenty-two, Yuuri learns that even though he’s far too heavy, he’s never needed someone to carry him, never wanted to be treated as a burden—he only hopes for someone to hold his hand and walk beside him. Perhaps he’s used up his lifetime’s worth of luck to find them, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.  
  
Now Yuuri is twenty-three, and despite the monsters that haunt him (anxiety, depression, the blue that wanes and waxes), he can truthfully say he’s happy.  
  
If he were to describe his life right now, he’d have to quote the writer Arthur V. Huemmer for lack of his own words: “It’s a war in which he is his own enemy, but rarely ever an ally. Some days may dawn with an agony akin to being shot, to having a hole in the heart; but each bullet, his loved ones have taught, should rather be returned with flowers.”

Since he can’t be kind to himself for his own sake, he can look around and see he’s loved, and that’s what helps the scars fade into reminders of his own perseverance.

The rhyme comes from Yuuri’s favorite novel,  _Stammi Vicino._ In his first reading, he found it to be a mirror of his life, describing emotions he didn’t know could be printed in ink. It was written for a lonely, bitter man who slowly falls for a kind librarian, but who denies it at first, too afraid to love someone when he can’t even love himself. Through time spent together, he gains understanding that helps him appreciate his surroundings and himself, and in turn becomes more confident in his capacity to express love.  
  
Some have criticized the novel for being “too flowery” with its language, but to him, the lyricality doesn’t understate issues like mental illness, lack of self-worth, and society’s view of the people who suffer from them, but rather gives the reader a more meaningful and optimistic outlook.

It speaks of how misery shouldn’t eclipse every living moment, tells him how important it is to try to find beauty in everyday life, especially for those who need it the most. How painful would it be, Yuuri thinks, to have your soul untouched by even the smallest joys?  
  
For these reasons and more, the book stands as one of his favorite modern masterpieces, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t help shape his views as a young adult, and in the present—  


* * *

  
—Footsteps grow louder in their timid approach. 

“Hello,” a voice says. Yuuri repeats the greeting as he raises his head, and finds that what stands before him is a young man, though that may be a generous description for someone so slight.

He’s several inches shorter than Phichit, and if Yuuri could compare he’d find even Guanghong had substantial leverage—even without the shoes with the hidden wedge he thinks people don’t know about. Everyone knows. Height doesn’t always equate age, but more, along with a stoic countenance instead of the excitable grin, would've helped combat his youthfulness.

People mention Yuuri’s baby face often, especially in times when his weight would fluctuate due to stress or habitual eating, giving him a rounder impression; but at the age of 20, which he presumes this stranger is, he still passed for much more mature.

The person plopping down into the chair looks like he could be starting high school—could easily fit right in with the kids. The way he fidgets in the seat, heel unconsciously bouncing against the ground, only exacerbates the image. One of the few possible indications of older age (though it could go either way) is the dyed hair, bleached an even dirty blond besides the stylistically scarlet-colored fringe.

In any case, he’s definitely anxious, and begins uttering a variety of sentence starters he can’t seem to finish.

“I am… eto… good, nice… it is, today…”

There’s a notable Japanese lilt to his voice, but Yuuri can’t tell whether the fumbling is caused by shyness or a loose grasp of English. He’s reminded of his own experience with the language. His first stuttering attempts at conversation were abhorrent.

“...W-WILL YOU BE MY FRIEND?” the blond finally decides, startling Yuuri with the sudden intensity of his voice. He seems proud of himself as he looks at Yuuri with anticipating, sparkling eyes.  
  
_What a strange thing to say_ , he thinks, and he’s worried it shows on his face. It’s strange, though relationships, he supposes, do usually start out with some sort of friendship.

“Uh, hey… Are you Japanese? We can speak in Japanese,” Yuuri says in lieu of a reply, switching to his native language halfway.

The man’s mouth forms a small ‘o’ shape before his lips spread from ear to ear. Perhaps he didn’t expect someone here would be able to speak Japanese, if his wild gestures and voice rising an extra pitch are any indication. “Oh, Yes! I don’t speak English that well! Thank you!”

“I’m Katsuki Yuuri, it’s a pleasure.”

“Nice to meet you! I’m Minami Kenjirou!” he chirps, making the chair clatter as he stands to give Yuuri a small bow. It’s a bit formal, but it finally gives him a name to match with his face. Introductions should usually be the first thing, but he doesn't mind since the boy— _man_ , he reminds himself—started with a relatable case of the jitters, and he’s no stranger to word salad regurgitating itself.  
  
“So, umm… Minami-kun, what do you like to do?” 

“Ah, Kenjirou is fine. Is Yuuri-kun okay with you? I think you’re older than me.” There’s a certain hesitance that comes with jumping right into first name basis even if they are in the States, but he nods anyways. It helps that Kenjirou looks so young—it’s more like addressing a child.  
  
_Oh my god, I’m starting to feel like a predator._  
  
Kenjirou taps his fingers in thought before answering, “I like to listen to music, dancing, and food I guess. Ooh! And I also have a nice candle collection!”  
  
“Candles?”  
  
There’s a glow around him now—rather like a candle, actually. “Yeah, I have this whole dresser and boxes full of them! There’s some scented ones, some with cool shapes…”

With a shy hesitance he continues, “...Would you like to see?”  
  
“Sure,” Yuuri assents with a small nod.

Kenjirou beams.

Collections were always fun to look at, and Yuuri’s never been one for judging people based on their hobbies or enthusiasm—though he’d probably never get over the incident with the fursuit porn, but hey, to each his own. While Yuuri leans over the table for better look, Kenjirou scrolls through his albums, finding the one labeled ‘CANDLES,’ with three neighboring cake emojis. He smiles again, and his sharp, pronounced canines make a literal wolfish grin, but it’s more like puppy-ish in his case.  
  
They quickly thumb through pictures of meticulously arranged clusters, along with a few special favorites, pausing a few times when Yuuri asks to admire something or Kenjirou tells a story.  
  
Candle anecdotes, surprisingly, can get pretty wild, and it’s not just the ones about melted wax or fires (Kenjirou isn't one to actually light candles anyways).  
  
There’s one from when he’s 17 and met up with a supposed candlestand maker in a park near the shopping district, but ended up with two bottles of gin and a trip to the police box. It explained why his classmates kept stressing the syllables when they told him about a guy who made “ _candleholders_.” Yuuri chuckles and, in return, ends up telling him about the time he accidentally ate soap because he thought it was wagashi. In his defense he was nine.  
  
“Wow, these are nice.” Yuuri comments at a nine-piece set of realistically carved roses encased in clear gel, the actual wicks above them on round platforms of wax. Kenjirou had pretty great taste in decorative candles, aligning with his own easily.  
  
“Right? Some people just don’t understand. I got these imported from Taiwan—oh!” The time catches his eye, and despite how much he wants to show off his hoard, he realizes the fact they’ve used half their time but he still doesn’t know much about his partner.  
  
“Sorry I got carried away, Yuuri-kun, I—”

“It’s no problem. Your collection is lovely,” Yuuri replies honestly. He’s even considering getting some to spruce up the dorm room.

Besides, one of the best parts of meeting new people is finding out what and how they love.  
  
Kenjirou scratches his back sheepishly, glancing at Yuuri’s face that’s molded in an imitation of assurance—or so he would hope it is, but sometimes his facial muscles just don’t cooperate. Judging from the relief reflected back through bright brown eyes, he supposes he did an okay job.

“Umm! How about you? What do you like to do?”  
  
Yuuri hums. “I like to read, and I can cook. I’m also majoring in graphic design in college.”  
  
“Oooh, that’s all so cool! What kind of stuff do you read? I mostly read stuff like manga.”  
  
“Mostly novels, or short stories, or something like that... I’m not that picky as long as the writing is good.” He does, however, tend to gravitate towards romantic fiction and adventure, along with some good historical texts. Unless they’re about art history. That can go suck it.  
  
“And you know English? You can read in English?” Kenjirou asks, uncontained awe making Yuuri blush as he nods.

“That’s so cool! I’m pretty good at understanding but I can’t speak it I’ve been here for two months but I’ve barely been getting by somehow.”  
  
“Ah, it just takes some practice. American English syllables can be difficult though.”  
  
“Yeah,” he agrees, furrowing his brows, “I get tongue-tied.”  
  
“Talking slowly is fine, most of the people here are nice... also, if you don’t mind me asking, Mina—ah, Kenjirou-kun, why are you here? I mean, in America not _here_. In my case, I come for school.”  
“Me too! I’m in a homestay program here!”  
  
Some time during his last year of high school, Yuuri had also been in a homestay. He’d come and left having advanced his language skills, but hadn’t actually gotten a lot practice with it since he could barely talk to most of the people, except his hosts and a handful of students. It had been a scary experience—a curious crowd surrounding him, having to give presentations with people snickering in the background, and trying to ignore all the eyes and attention he was being given.    
  
“I used to do that too but now I live in a dorm. Do you attend one of the local colleges?”  
  
“College?”  
  
“Umm, university?” he tries.  
  
Kenjirou laughs, “Didn’t I say I’m in high school?”  
  
_Wait, what._  
  
“What.” Is all that comes out, and Kenjirou looks as if Yuuri’s the one who’s making ludicrous comments. Last time he checked, he isn’t, but to be honest sometimes he’s not the best judge of erratic behavior, especially when it’s his own.  
  
“You... didn’t?”  
  
“Oh god, is that a deal breaker? I...AM I NOT COOL ENOUGH? I know I talked about candles but they’re pretty awesome, and—”  
  
Yuuri cuts him off with an outstretched hand.  
  
“Umm, I mean… It’s more like... Kenjirou-kun, did you read the sign? on the door?” Yuuri shifts his arm to motion toward the entrance.  
  
“Yeah.” He bobs his head casually.  
  
_Oh no, he’s illiterate,_ is the first instinctive thought, but then he remembers the other is a native Japanese man— _boy_ , is probably more appropriate now—with just basic practical skills, and cannot be faulted for the fact that he can’t read English perfectly. He probably just saw the word ‘Speed’ and assumed he was in the right place.  
  
“Speed Friending, right? I came here to make friends just like you. I even practiced how to ask it in English!”  
  
Yuuri hesitates with those shining eyes boring into him, but sucks in a shallow breath and says, “this is actually Speed Dating. I think you got the wrong room.”  
  
“What? That's…” His already-large eyes widen to full moons, and they swivel around the room in disbelief, taking in all the faces he neglected to notice looked suspiciously older than nineteen, before returning back to Yuuri.  
  
“...Ah...I think I got lost,” he laughs, rubbing up and down his pinkened neck while his other hand tightens on the fabric of his jeans, and with that Yuuri can tell it’s a rather feeble attempt at comforting himself.  
  
With a burst of determination he walks around the table and presses a hand around Kenjirou’s shoulder, but loses the initial momentum and becomes unsure of what exactly to say except, “I’ll help you find the right room. Come on.” He prompts him to stand and drop the rigid smile, watching it be replaced with a grimace that also doesn’t quite fit but is more true to how he feels at the moment.  
  
Kenjirou said he came here to make friends. Staying in a foreign country without any real connections is hard, and that’s surely why he’s here in the first place; because of loneliness. Years ago, Yuuri found himself in a situation both opposite and the same, where he knew the language well enough, but was unable to really get through to people because he was too afraid of opening up.  
  
“Is something wrong?” the clerk at the front desk asks, looking between the two over a crossword puzzle. Yuuri recites the dilemma.  
  
“I can take him to the right room then. Thanks for your help!”  
  
“Oh, before you go, can I talk to him for a sec?”  
  
“Sure thing,” the man says, ever chipper, and he gives them a bit of space as he returns to the squares. 11-letter synonym for burgeon.  
  
Yuuri turns toward Kenjirou, who’s been silent since they left the tables, expression difficult to read. It’s the same kind of blank face his best friend makes when something’s bothering him, but he won’t say it and tries to worry alone—not on Yuuri’s watch.  
  
“He’s gonna be taking you to the other room,” he says, getting Kenjirou’s attention off the overly-polished hardwood floor, but other than that there’s very little reaction.  
  
He pauses, then continues in English, wondering if it’ll do any good for the boy in front of him, “Um, Kenjirou, did you... still want to be my friend?”  
  
He fiddles with the rims of his glasses, and hopes it isn’t weird or creepy considering the age gap between them. For him, age in friendship stopped mattering somewhere around his freshman year of college, but for it to even be called friendship, a relationship has to be based off some kind of mutual understanding. Yuuri’s not sure if this quite counts, or if he’s looking to be more of a guardian figure, but even so, if Kenjirou needs a friend he wouldn’t mind calling himself that.  
  
The words process slowly, one-by-one, then altogether, and as Kenjirou realizes what’s just been said to him, Yuuri’s relieved to find his face blossoms into a toothy smile. “Yes!” he practically shouts. Then more quietly, slowly, “I would li-LOVE to be your friend.”  
  
The pronunciation is just a little bit terrible, but the feeling is there.  
  
“Here, you can message me anytime if you need help, or if you just wanna talk.“ Yuuri scribbles his contact information on his notepad and rips out the page. The other takes it like it’s gilded, making some squeaky noises in his throat as he furiously bobs his head.  
  
“See you another time.”  
  
“Yeah, bye bye, Yuuri. I’ll call soon!” The clerk leads him away. They wave goodbye as Kenjirou disappears out the door, smile blindingly bright.  
  
With nothing else to do, Yuuri sighs and returns to his seat to play on his phone until the bell rings, still in the middle of a jump game by the time someone new arrives. Not wanting to be rude, he lets the pixelated character fall into oblivion and shoves the phone in his pocket.  
  
“Hi I’m—” He stops. “Oh, Phichit it’s you.”  
  
“Yes, ‘tis I. Aren’t you glad to see me though?” he says as he shifts into a ridiculously artistic pose (the man knows his angles), and Yuuri smiles, sinking down into his chair.  
  
Now that he’s here, Phichit demands all the details of what’s happened so far in the night. The first part is embarrassing, the next private, and the last not quite categorizable and difficult to describe, but he gets through it. No solid dates so far, but he has made friends which is a pretty good start.  
  
Eventually, it becomes Yuuri’s turn to interrogate, and Phichit actually grabs him by the shoulders to tell him about a distractingly pretty man.  
  
His exact words are, “Super. Hot. Fire.”  
  
Yuuri gasps—he only ever hears him say that in front of a mirror.  
  
Phichit takes his head and points him in the right direction, somewhere down the long row of tables.  
  
Who could be good enough looking, he wonders, to make Phichit, selfie master extraordinaire, perpetual lead of school plays, supreme karaoke overlord, and probably one of the most handsome people in all of Michigan, _swoon_ ?  
  
The answer is like clickbait:  
  
Surprising.  
  
“Phichit, that’s Seung-gil!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It got too long, sorry for the exact same cliffhanger twice in a row m(_ _)m


	7. Speed Waiting (Hurry the Fuck Up)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter gives a feel of how stressed midterms made me
> 
> Anyways, sorry this is so late despite the fact I said it would be out fast. I had like a whole week of migraine pain, then the New Year happened, then I rewrote this like 50 times, then midterms, and now we are here.
> 
> The alternate title for this chapter is "Irrational Rationality."
> 
> Also 4got to say but I went back and edited previous chapter at some point. The plot hasn't changed in the slightest but I hope it's a smoother read.

Yuuri might’ve jumped the gun on that one.  
  
“You know him!?” Phichit exclaims, meeting his eyes in a mixture of shock and excitement.

“Uhhh...” he replies intelligently, trying to avoid direct contact with the expectant gaze.

He does.

They’re both avid members of the campus Dog-Lovers Association, more commonly known as the DLA.

But there’s more to the story than just that, and a reason why Seung-gil, who Yuuri would consider one of his close friends, and Phichit, who is definitely his closest friend, have never once met. He can practically hear the record scratch and time rewinding itself to the beginning of the year, flashing back to the fateful day of revelations.  


* * *

It’s midterm week.

Wednesday afternoons, such as this one, would usually be spent recuperating from Tuesday classes instead of in the school library cramming, but the upcoming Art History exam is worth 23% of the grade. Why classes are graded like this, Yuuri doesn’t know. What he does know is way too much miscellaneous information about dead European men.

Besides being their one mutual seminar, Art History is also the only class Seung-gil is taking offline this quarter. Though rendered somehow more pallid than usual, he’s still faring significantly better than Yuuri in terms of lassitude.

The classroom setting is what facilitates a joint awareness between them; the two with the least to say about themselves during the Icebreakers have a pass-back-the-syllabus encounter.  
  
Later, actual bonding occurs during the DLA Owner & Pet Socialization Meetup, where Yuuri formally introduces himself to the intimidating, brooding teen—his face says  _no_ but his dog says  _yes_. Most occasions trying at small talk would wreck him, but then Seung-gil’s husky licks his hand and stares up at him with big brown eyes, and there’s very few things, debilitating embarrassment included, that can stop Yuuri from petting a cute dog.

He notices a lot about Seung-gil in the span of a few short months, including contradictions of character so evident in the way he lives.

While he may be blunt and oftentimes rude, Seung-gil is caring towards those whom he cherishes, and will do basically anything he can for them. He’s disinterested in the world around him, but passionate and highly dedicated in regards to his art. He’s great at weighing options and quantifying situations, calculating the best route from point A to point B, but ends up taking a roundabout because his pride won’t let him put up pretenses.

Overall, he starts off with a bad impression but he’s a nice guy underneath the sharp tongue and chronic affliction of resting bitch face—or in his case, generalized bitch face.

Then there’s the serious lack of effort in regards to wardrobe coordination. It’s a wonder how someone so handsome with such refined aesthetics (your typical Sculpture major) constantly wears eccentric designs, clashing colors, and the occasion socks-with-Crocs combo—as if the Crocs weren’t bad enough themselves—but Yuuri gets used to it for the most part.

As proof, he barely flinched when Seung-gil trudged in decked in sweats, sneakers, and what seems to be a woman’s off-shoulder top. “Free Keeps Evolving Alive,” the shirt reads, and while it looks great on him, Yuuri still has to question Korean fashion and why Seung-gil owns it in the first place. Despite this curiosity, however—coupled with the impression that Seung-gil’s lifestyle is one of generally not giving a shit—it’s against Yuuri’s ethics to comment negatively on appearance, so for the next hour or so he distracts himself by writing test topics onto flashcards and cursing the art gods and their patrons.  
  
Literally.

 _Hokusai, you bitch,_ Yuuri thinks to himself, trying to memorize the copious amounts of dates and contexts scribbled messily onto neon notecards and class pamphlets; he’s also slowly dying in the process. Not that people aren’t always slowly dying, but he’s slowly dying just a _little bit_ faster.

Good thing he can trust Isabella to cover the eyebags on his corpse.

“...Yuuri.”  
  
Seung-gil utters this as he stares down at the derelict table, hollow eyes unblinking, thoroughly reminiscent of a condemned sinner perceiving the holy light of a malevolent god, or an equally compelling vision of diabolical origin, before being damned eternally to the merciless, unrelenting depths of Tartarus.

Again, midterms.

The sound of his own name is white noise, lost in auditory hallucinations of the Great Wave Off Kanagawa, which is shoddily printed onto a sheet in a resolution equivalent to the taste of dirt.  
  
“Yuuri,” Seung-gil repeats with more urgency, and this time Yuuri hears him over the unbridled hatred echoing in his brain. With it tangoes an acute onset of headache, meaning the lack of sleep mixed with an unhealthy amount of energy drinks is taking it’s toll.  
  
An affirmative reflexively escapes his throat before he silences it with the last shot of Monster. This is his third can this week, or perhaps the fourth? He lost track somewhere along Rembrandt, the smug-faced bastard. If he’s lucky, he’ll pass out at this rate. Academia can’t hurt him if he has a doctor’s note.

As he sloshes the sour liquid around his mouth, savoring the last tongue-numbing bit of caffeinated sugar that he hopes will keep him alert enough to reach the dorm, Seung-gil looks up at him and finally blinks.

“How do you tell someone you love them?”  
  
Well, there goes his drink.

The can clatters on the ground, and whatever spit he can’t catch with his hand mists over the table. He ruined the Mona Lisa. Yuuri doesn’t usually curse out loud, but stress is getting to him with several important deadlines dawning at once, and he got maybe three hours of sleep last night, so this seems like a good time in particular.

“What the fuck, Seung-gil.”

He's wonders if he’s comprehending the words right. Maybe he’s not. Maybe it’s because of all the texts on Renaissance artists. Or maybe everything is just one big hallucinogenic fever dream and Yuuri’s actually been in a blissful coma for the last fifteen years.  
  
It’s a nice thought, but one look at Seung-gil’s expression tells him the man is completely serious, so he sobers himself up the best he can, picks up his fallen trash, and amends, “you just…do? I guess? Sorry, I’m not really... the best person to ask for advice.”  
  
“You’ve actually been in relationships though,” Seung-gil says with a raised brow.  
  
Wiping his papers with the handkerchief he had in his bag, Yuuri retorts, “Well, yeah, but I’m not now. There’s kinda a reason for that.”  
  
“What about the last time you dat—”  
  
“It was bad. Please never bring it up ever again.”  
  
The other man tuts, giving Yuuri the chance to add an afterthought. “So who’s the guy? Is it the one from the forum?”

He’s a regular there; the “forum” is just a generic nickname for the offshoot sector of the University’s LGBT+ Club, meant as a place of congregation for individuals who need an outlet. It’s official title, rendered a year before Yuuri’s enrollment in white block letters, is PLUS, and the website’s users are almost entirely anonymous aside from the hard-working moderators who also run the origin group.  
  
Seung-gil nods slowly in reply.  
  
In hindsight, Yuuri can’t say he didn’t expect this outcome at all. It’s just that hearing the word “love” from Seung-gil’s mouth is almost as alien as the clothes on his back.

His attitude for others tends toward detached, callous, or, in some cases, vulgar. Sweet words, like how fun it is to talk to him (paraphrased), his contagious vivacity that inspires Seung-gil (paraphrased), and how his voice is so breathtakingly beautiful it could make flowers bloom (paraphrased, but only slightly), are reserved only for Seung-gil’s mystery man. Across the screen he only knows the username “ _Terra.”_  
  
He’s been talking with the guy for months, a few before meeting Yuuri, but save for messenger calls, _still_ hasn’t gathered the courage to exchange real names or ask for a video chat or do anything that might lead to finding out his identity. Terra’s even prompted it before, asking if Seung-gil was okay with outing himself to him and vice versa, but the latter declined on the basis of bashfulness and it was never brought up again. It’s likely he’s waiting for Seung-gil to mention it first.  
  
Yuuri can sympathise with his friend’s hesitance. He suspects that Seung-gil is different in that private space—less withdrawn, more gentle with his diction. Though he doesn’t show it, he’s afraid to disappoint; which might be a first for him since he's used to avoiding people, and playing the part of the archetypal lone wolf.  
  
As a separate matter, it’s also hard for some to publicly state, for whatever reason, their deviation from normalized standards of sexuality. Seung-gil is a youngin’ of nineteen, who only came to terms with the fact that he’s gay last year. His parents had a hard time digesting it, and still don’t fully accept it, which no doubt affected his decision in attending this institute instead of one back home. In Yuuri’s case, he’s been out as long ago as his first year of high school, because there just wasn’t enough room for both him and the skeletons in the closet.

He asks Seung-gil, “are you sure it’s... love?” regardless of the answer in plain sight: it’s not every day a stoic becomes a lovesick fool.

“I’m sure,” comes the reply, tone steady, assured, with the smallest of smiles overtaking his lips in fond remembrance. Lowered eyelashes cast small shadows over his pale cheeks as he says, voice uncharacteristically soft, “he makes me happy.”  
  
Yuuri can only exhale in acknowledgment.  
  
Still, there are things that need to be confirmed to make sure it’s not a lost cause. He’d rather his friend not get hurt chasing after a fleeting concept, no matter how captivating. Throughout his years Yuuri’s learned that sometimes—often—relationships are as much a matter of circumstance as they are emotion, and some questions just need to be asked, such as the ever-important, “does he like men too?”  
  
“He’s bi.”

“Is he single?”

“Yeah.”  
  
“Looking to date?”  
  
“I think so.”  
  
“Did he say he was out in real life? Yeah, right? Are you okay with coming out? I mean, there are a few jerks but the people here are pretty liberal, we’re at art college and all and—”  
  
“Yeah. I’m sure, okay. No one even knows me anyways.”

True, if harsh. Discreet, introverted, and brusque are qualities that work well in tandem to either repel (most) potential conversationalists or escape their attention in the first place. Seung-gil makes himself scarce on campus, and the only reason he’s even in the DLA is for his dog, who he feels needs some interaction besides him every once in awhile. Funny, Yuuri had pinned him for a cat person at first sight, but as evidenced looks can be deceiving.

“Hmmm…do you care what he looks like?” he asks since his mind brought up the subject.

“Does it matter?”  
  
He gives Seung-gil’s outfit another once over. Hard to judge. “Kinda? I think?”  
  
“...I wouldn’t care even if he were Jean’s twin.”

“Hey look, I know you hate JJ—” A scoff. “—for saying you look like an Archi major and accidentally stepping on Jin’s tail—”

“He’s a prick.”

“—But he’s still handsome, you’ve gotta admit.”

“No I don’t. How are you friends with that asshole?”

“He’s nice, once you get to kno—”

“He’s pretentious.”  
  
“He’s...”

Rebuttal is challenging when he remembers Phichit introducing them to each other after the Spring musical. “Prepare for a storm,” he’d said.  
  
Yuuri was not prepared.  
  
But JJ was. His readiness to sign autographs at any given moment was amazing, like a challenge on the human limitation of confidence. Where he hid that pen in his unitard, Yuuri didn’t know nor did he ever find out, but he does recall hesitantly agreeing to the inscription. Today, some lucky person out there has a rental textbook with the signature “ _King JJ”_ on the inside cover.  
  
“...You know what? Let’s drop it. But seriously, what if your guy isn’t your type? Is that a problem?”  
  
There’s lots of hot people at art college, so the subject’s been breached many times in the past three months. Even the Animation and Design students clean up well on the rare days that they’re not busy being living zombies, though it’s a widely known fact that the cream of the crop reside in the theatre department and the third floor of Building 2: Cosmetology.  
  
Few would expect it at first glance, or even after it happens, but Seung-gil’s “complimentary” remarks reveal his salacious nature and libidinous desires; or, in colloquial terms, his status as a thirsty hoe. His unhesitating honesty is a quality Yuuri always appreciates, but the flipside is the unhesitating bluntness, meaning comments out of the blue such as, “I’d sit on that,” or, “I want to lick whipped cream out of his collarbones (sadly an exact quote, and one of the more mild ones).”  
  
Seung-gil is a master at keeping the straightest face while saying the gayest words, and it’s extremely disconcerting for those who hear it, always, _always_ uttered at the weirdest or most inappropriate moments for extra impact. Seemingly innocuous, these comments creep up on Yuuri until he actually processes their meaning, and then promptly cause him a mini heart attack or secondhand embarassment, depending on the severity of the implications.

Lately, in gradients, he’s noticed some changes in Seung-gil. He’s been smiling more, though the last three weeks have been a bit harsh on him. Terra’s been busy with work, school, and what Seung-gil has described as maintaining other, longer-standing relationships. Yuuri can sympathise, especially because all of his friends have been somewhat absent for various reasons.  
  
Aside from gaining a besotted admirer, Leo’s balancing tutoring and his midterm projects. JJ and Isabella are finalizing details of their engagement party. Because of work, even Phichit can barely fit Yuuri into his schedule—not that he blames him, he just feels a bit lonely now that they can rarely speak other than in passing. To cope, he and Seung-gil have been hanging out more often than usual.

Another major change is that Seung-gil has been talking less and less about romping with strangers and more and more about the man he’d unwittingly (he probably didn’t realize his own feelings until recently) fallen for.

Yuuri’s very glad Seung-gil is in love, because he tells him, “I’ll think he’s beautiful, no matter what...” while gazing into the faraway distance, somewhere past the self-help shelf.  
  
Besides the inversely proportional dreams of rest and good grades, a list of ‘words he never thought Seung-gil would say’ would be nice—in proper context, at least; he’s uttered “beautiful” before, but only to vindictively describe JJ’s voice cracking in a rehearsal recording.    
  
Then on a note so casual Yuuri could’ve mistaken it for reading off a shopping list, the other continues, “...either way I’d suck his dick in a heartbeat.”  
  
There it is. There’s the Seung-gil he knows. Now he’s starting to get comfortable combining lust and affection into a singular concept.  
  
‘Heartbeat’ sadly fails the context test.  
  
Preferring not to acknowledge the comment overtly, Yuuri shakes his head and asks, “anyways, when are you gonna tell him?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“That you love him?”  
  
“Oh…” He pauses. “I don’t know how. That’s why I asked you.”  
  
_Cut off your ear and give it to him,_ the Devil whispers, touting both bad advice _and_ historical inaccuracies—van Gogh’s life is rumored to be extra credit on the exam. Again, Yuuri’s not the best person to ask, but he supplies, “first, maybe you should ask to meet in real life? Or video chat or something?”  
  
“I could do that.”  
  
“You should.” Yuuri’s nod is interrupted by a yawn, followed by the jovial chimes of his message tone—it’s most likely Phichit, since his shift at the nearby florists ends around this time today. Now that his job’s slowed down (Valentine’s is killer there) they were able to set aside time to relax together.  
  
Thankfully the suspicion is confirmed when Yuuri reads the texts, telling first that his roommate’s coming back, second that he’s ready to keep Yuuri awake to work on his Illustration project (he’ll probably just force Yuuri to sleep), and third that there was a customer today who tried to return a week-old bouquet. They’re his cue to pack up, so he bites back another yawn and says, “I think I’m gonna go soon. Maybe 10 minutes?”  
  
With an air of resignation, Seung-gil gently rests his face on his piles of well-organized notecards and mumbles something along the line of, “I want the sweet embrace of death.”

Ah yes. Casual existential angst. Something Yuuri knows well.

“Me too.”  
  
While Yuuri compiles his papers and pencils, Seung-gil asks, too deadpan for the insinuation yet desperate all the same, “...what if he doesn’t like me?”  
  
_What are you, five?”_ is what he’s tempted to reply, but Yuuri being who he is, even in his current state of life-induced disorientation, just balks incredulously, “you’ve been talking for  _months_ already, he likes you enough to spend hours of his day talking to you... you don’t have to confess but, just, message him about meeting, or something?”  
  
Seung-gil extracts himself from the table and sighs, “we’re supposed to chat when he gets off work today.” A notecard hangs precariously from his cheek, swinging once, twice, before falling to his lap.

“When is that?”

“Around 5:00.”

“Umm...” Yuuri checks his phone again. “It’s 5:02.”

“...What if he says no?”

“He won’t, I think. From what you’ve told me, you shouldn't worry too much. It sounds like he wants to meet you too.”

With a huff Seung-gil reaches for his own device, logging into his forum account with sluggish hands and checking the chat log. There’s the remnants of a previous conversation, early one morning—or late one night, whichever is more befitting—and the beginning of a new one just a few minutes ago.

“I’m not ready for this.”  


* * *

_  
2 Weeks Ago_ _, 1:41 AM_

_Terra:   sorry 4 the late reply I was finishing up some stuff for English_ __  
_anyways that's the reason y we’re banned from that Subway_ __  
_You:     Did he die?_ __  
_Terra:   oh no lol someone called an ambulance right after_ __  
_You:     Damn. And you should probably sleep soon, don’t you have work tomorrow?_ __  
_Terra:   :(((( yah and rehearsals too. Sorry that I’ve been so busy lately I'm not sure when I’ll be free again_ __  
_You:     That’s fine, you should relax when you get the chance. Goodnight._ __  
_Terra:   Goodnight!!_  
  
There's a bunch of small _‘How are you today?’_ s and _‘good, hbu?’_ s in between that never quite bloomed into anything on account of Terra’s hectic schedule, except for the one telling Seung-gil that today is finally the lull he’s been waiting for. __  
__  
Today, 4:57 PM

 _Terra:   i just got out, heading back_  
_are u on rn?_  
_You:     I’m on now. How was today?_  
  
“Are you talking right now?” Yuuri questions, peering over his backpack to watch Seung-gil type.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
A reply comes quickly, like it usually does.  
  
_Terra:   it was pretty chill compared to the last week_  
_but there was this rlly rude customer tho. I’m walking rn do u mind if we voice chat so I can tell u about it?_  
_I’m livid_  
  
“He wants to voice chat. What should I do?”  
  
“Say yes? Talk to him?” Yuuri suggests. It’s the smart option.  
_  
_ “I’m with a friend right now,” he writes instead, because he’s an idiot.

If he were to justify his reasoning, as much as he misses Terra’s voice, Seung-gil doesn’t trust himself not to stutter or clam up when (if) he asks to meet. As a person who’d learned that the most important opinion has always been his own, especially after his decision to leave home after that big fight with his father, this is one of the few times he’s ever felt what he’s thought of as baseless anxiety. This is also, however, the first time he’s ever been in love.

 _“Is this how Yuuri feels all the time?”_ he thinks; caring about how others see you is a pain—partially in the ass but mostly in the heart. Of course, Seung-gil has never been completely devoid of attachments or emotion, but he expresses it more subtly and more sparingly than most, and only for the most deserving. Few have ever become important enough that he actually _wants_ to prove himself to them in some way.

He’s indifferent to the usual standard of social etiquette, but that’s just fine. No point stressing to impress those who don’t matter, or exerting energy that could be used, in his opinion, on things that do. But he will concede he can be harsh at times, and the karma from ignoring greetings and glaring at loud classmates might be coming back to haunt him now, because the reply follows:  
  
_Terra:  YOURE WITH A FRIEND???EVEN MORE REASON TO TALK TGEN HOW COME YOU NEVER TOLD ME ABOUT THIS BEFORE_ __  
__  
Well, he likes hearing the other talk and he’s been hellbent on keeping his identity a secret (Yuuri is more highkey than he believes he is), so details about his life are kept to a minimum. Plus he’s only been close enough with Yuuri to consider them good friends for a few weeks, which largely coincides with how busy Terra’s been.  
  
            _IMEAN U BARLEY EVEN LIKE PEOPLE_  
  
They’ve managed to get pretty close in such a condensed timeframe for two main reasons: the first is that Yuuri has overflowing amounts of empathy and tolerance; and the second is that Seung-gil speaks freely, which has led to some very personal conversations and, ultimately, a kindred bond despite their contrasting personalities. Neither have much social tact, but Seung-gil’s lifestyle is more self-imposed and Yuuri is just really, really dense when it comes to himself; and with the exception of now, Seung-gil doesn’t care while Yuuri cares too much about basically everything.  
  
           _EXCEPT ME BUT IM SPECIAL_  
  
They both do like dogs, though. Had it not been for Jin—creative name for a Jindo, Seung-gil’s heard it a thousand times before—approving of Yuuri, it’s unlikely that they would’ve ever become friends. __  
__  
_WANNA INTRODUCE ME PLEASE_ __  
_  
__“I’ll ask,”_ he writes back, knowing little can be done to dissuade Terra once he’s latched onto a topic so fervently. He takes what he can get, probably having caught onto Seung-gil’s deliberate withholding of information anyways.

_Terra:   Wait do they know you’re gay??_

_You:     Yeah he does._

“He wants to meet you.”

In an expression of disappointment, or to check for fever—plausible as he’s been momentarily blacking out for the last two hours—Yuuri slides a palm over his forehead.  
  
“How did you even…” he starts, though he knows that Seung-gil operates in a different field of logic that he’ll probably never quite understand. “You know what, okay.” 

“Okay?”

“Introduce us. I’m kinda curious anyways.”

When Seung-gil looks back to the chat room to reply, he sees another received message: _IM SO HAOPY FOR U_  
  
It’s cute how excited Terra gets, and he can almost gauge the exact level of elation from how many grammar mistakes there are.  
  
_You:      He said okay._  
_Terra:   OK IM CALLING_  
  
The phone vibrates and Seung-gil panics a bit, in a Seung-gil kind of way—not much different from how he usually is, but if Yuuri concentrates he can see him astral projecting into another dimensional plane. A few buzzes go by while his consciousness floats around looking for courage.  
  
“You should really pick up,” forces it back into the fleshy prison of his body.  
  
“Yeah,” he agrees, still not moving.  
  
With a small realization, Yuuri begins to worry-ramble, “wait, we’re in the library. Oh god, we’re gonna be those people, we should try really try to be quiet...” Meanwhile, Seung-gil finds enough nerve to accept the call and change the setting to speaker, adjusting it a little lower than max volume.  
  
“Hello?” he asks, testing the audio. He can hear the ragged static of the feed and fabric rustling on the other end, along with the usual sound of daytime foot traffic. Yuuri leans in a little and grimaces nervously. He’s about voice a greeting as well when—

“ _Sawatdee Krap! Hello I’m Vivo’s friend_ ~” The high and cheery voice that Seung-gil’s grown fond of blares through, and Yuuri freezes.  
  
“OH MY GOD!” he yells, right after snatching away the phone and abruptly ending the call. Maybe when he calls back, Seung-gil can explain it as bad connection since Terra’s already sending messages asking if it broke, but first he has to figure out what Yuuri’s problem is.  
  
No one really cares about the outburst after about three seconds, because they’re also suffering from lack of sleep and other midterm symptoms, and have likely witnessed much worse. He heard that a girl from Ani 28 started banging her fists on the desk for a solid five minutes after the professor reminded their project was due soon, and no one in that room batted an eye. Dark circles, incoherent rambling, and low self esteem—actually, that one’s always there—Yuuri fits the bill to a T, which is why Seung-gil is more understanding right now.

“Yuuri, what the he—”  
  
“You’ve been talking to _him_ this entire time!?”  
  
“...What?”  
  
In a single breath, Yuuri stutters, “Oh god, everything you’ve told me makes sense now. It’s so obvious. The username, the late-night messaging; I always wondered who he was talking to but he just told me online friends, and you, you...”  
  
“Wait, do you know him?” Seung-gil asks, jolting out of his seat ready to accost Yuuri if it’ll stop his disjointed muttering even a second sooner. It does, and he sucks in some much needed air to say,  
  
“Seung-gil, that’s Phichit!”  


* * *

  
And there's the story of how Seung-gil finds out Terra is Yuuri’s roommate and best friend, and Yuuri finds out that there's someone even worse than him at the whole love thing.  
  
It’s been half a year since that incident, and Seung-gil spent a good two of those months avoiding Yuuri, and to an extent Phichit, so that he could align his thoughts before coming back and asking for forgiveness. He’s lucky that Yuuri is a saint.  
  
So how did they end up in this strange situation?  
  
Well, that was Yuuri’s fault. Mostly as a joke, he threw out the dumb idea to come here—he did say his weren’t always the greatest—and Phichit latched onto it like a leech. Yuuri should really know better by now.  
  
Then of course he had to mention the speed dating to Seung-gil, being his self-styled wingman who’s barely done any wingmanning. Perhaps he was afraid Phichit would find a date or two or three, or saw it as a good opportunity, because he declared, “I’m going to sign up too. If we match I’ll ask him out. If we don’t I’m moving to New Hampshire.”  
  
Yuuri’s been rubbing off on him.  
  
“How do you know him?” Phichit interrogates, half wearing his juicy-gossip face and half suspicious that Yuuri knows him but never said anything about him.  
  
“Someone from class,” Yuuri replies weakly, unconvincingly. Then he adds, “he’s also in the DLA,” to put him on the level of acquaintance—not too far, not too close. It puts him on the verge of believable.  
  
“I can’t believe you never introduced me,” Phichit sighs, “though I talked to him earlier and he kinda ignored me. Do you think he doesn’t like me?”  
  
“Oh no... Seung-gil is just...like that? I think he’s just awkward.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yeah. If he really didn’t like you, he’d probably just glare at you until you leave.”  
  
Phichit squints and says, “that’s kinda...weird?”  
  
Shoot, he’s terrible at this whole wingman thing.  
  
“Not like that! He’s nice, I mean he only does that to people he hates. Like this one guy who stepped on his dog’s tail and didn’t apologize—that kinda thing.”  
  
“Wow, what a dick.”  
  
“Haha...ha, I know right?”  
  
_Sorry JJ._ __  
  
“So do you think you could introduce us some other time? I’m kinda bummed that I can’t meet him tonight since we’re both rotating. He has really pretty eyes, you know?”  
  
“I can ask…”  
  
“Ooh, but tell me about him since we’re here.”  
  
What and how much can he reveal about Seung-gil without making it difficult for him to reveal himself as Terra’s chat partner later? At this point, can he go out of the plan and just do as Phichit says? How on Earth did this happen?  
  
He doesn’t understand how Seung-gil signed up for the wrong group.


	8. Every Protagonist Needs...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided since Yuri is so great and also 4 more exposition there'll be a more speedfriending chapter and don't worry they will be consecutive though I guess this is a deviation but hey, as the title implies every character is a main character in my heart. 
> 
> Also reminds me that posted up another fic it's got floristry and more puns

The car ride sing-along makes it both difficult and easy to be petulant.  
  
One of the best Disney musicals, in Yuri’s 100% correct opinion, is the sorely underrated _The Princess and the Frog_ , which even in it’s greatness is often left to collect dust alongside VHS copies of _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ and other less mainstream movies.   
  
His main peeve is that everyone in the car has directly addressed his lack of friends after a good year of solace, pities him for having few friends, and that they, his few friends, know him and his music bias well enough to add it to the setlist; but when all’s said and done, “Almost There” deserves more than silence or Mila’s deliberate voice cracking _,_ so he’ll have to return to wallowing in bitterness _after_ belting out the last chorus.  
  
By the time the song ends he’s in a much better mood. Therapeutic singing, interspersed with flashbacks to the movie, has even helped him see his situation from a different perspective, and come to terms with the idea that perhaps it’s time to throw away his previous biases and make some friends by being…nice.   
  
The rest of the car’s passengers cheer for an encore that he’s much obliged to perform, intro to the villain’s song beginning to play—until the point that Viktor re-bolsters his anger with one of his stupid jokes.   
  
“Five minutes away,” he says.  
  
Alone that would’ve been fine, but then he makes the conscious decision to look Yuri in the eye through the rear-view and sing, “we’re _almost there_.”

And if his hands weren’t on the wheel and the action wouldn’t potentially cause them all to perish in a tragic vehicular ‘accident,’ then the hair that covers his big, shiny forehead might’ve been ripped out right about now.  
  
Quelling his exasperation with the thought that his own life is worth too much to end in such a way, Yuri settles on a curt, “disgusting.” 

Viktor just laughs before a train of thought hits him. “Hey, Yura…isn’t _ICE_ near one of your rival schools? The one with all the fire alarms?” 

“Yeah,” he says with a nod, eyeing Viktor suspiciously as the car merges lanes.

Here is someone that _doesn’t_ value his own life, so desensitized to absurd situations and the associated danger that few threats, including Yuri’s five-year-honed glares, can faze him. He really should be more scared of the younger generation, considering the amount of… admirers… he’s had from them. Plus, though granted she’s slightly past the teen years, Mila could knock him out with a suplex any day. 

They turn a rather sharp left.  
  
“Do you suppose some students from there might be at Speed Friending?”   
  
“...Maybe. Why?”   
  
Knowing what’s coming, Mila is torn between stopping Viktor and looking forward to Yuri’s reaction. He really needs to stop falling for obvious set-ups.   
  
There’s Viktor’s smile his signature smile. The one he uses to wreck lives.   
  
“Oh nothing,” he chirps, speeding up on the straight road, blurring the view of the passing scenery, “just thought you might make some… _friends on the other side._ ”   
  
“I’LL KILL YOU!”

In his rage and to appear larger, Yuri attempts to stand, forgetting he’s restrained by a goddamned seatbelt. “YOU—!”  
  
“Hey, now (“you’re an Allstar,” Mila supplies, unhelpfully), why don’t we just keep singing? Singing is good. Umm, Mila why don’t you take it away.”     
  
“You got it,” she says with a wink.   
  
With the intention of diverting his anger and their untimely demise, Georgi, who’s shotgun and therefore in direct command of the music, starts blasting one of her recent favorites from the radio with a practiced hand.   
  
Repetitiveness, hard beats, and best of all nearly undecipherable lyrics make it easy for her to sing and end up sounding like a very rhythmical poetry reading—except she’s drunk and the text is upside down. Honestly, Mila is the best person to have around for karaoke, being able to switch between garbled death screeching and Mariah Carey with ease, though she tends toward the former for the sake of art. The song playing is her latest victim, her latest piece.  
  
Anyone who’s listened to a radio in the last few months has heard this song or a variant: something EDM—although at this point, just like the rest of the world, Yuri is unsure what exactly constitutes as EDM—with a chorus consisting mainly of a single word repeated in different inflections, yet a catchiness hard to deny. Unlike thirteen-year-old scene phase Yuri that he likes to pretend never existed, he’s not about to display a superiority complex about music of all things.   
  
Still, no matter how much Mila slurs Yuri will not allow himself to laugh, just in case his idiot cousin comes under the impression that he’s no longer angry.

He’s far too petty for letting go of grudges.  

To keep himself simmering (much like a well-cooked soup), and ready to rip Viktor a new one the moment they reach their stop, he drowns out the sound by pressing his forehead into the window and thinking of ways to maim him.

What he wouldn’t give to bang Viktor’s head into this glass right now.  
  
_I guess that’s why they call it window pain_ .   
  
Time stops for a second.

Then Yuri’s eyes shoot wide open. It may have been an Eminem quote, but did he _really_ just make a pun?

_Is this... punishment?_

_Wait, no, shit. This can’t be happening._

He… He’s been infected. Viktor would be so proud if he could read his mind right now, but Viktor being proud of him is nothing to be proud of because he’s already proud of him for everything, which is gross. Puns are also gross. And lame. Like Viktor.

How could the world be so cruel? Dealing with being a loner was easy enough, but now he won’t even be able to look Viktor in the eye anymore—not with the hypocritical blood staining his hands. Yuri has always been the only one rebuking Viktor, the last boss, the Final Frontier, so he cannot, will not, crack under this pressure. If he’s bystander to the terrible wordplay and Mila and Georgi let it slide or encourage it as they do, then nothing will be able to stop him, and all will be lost.  
  
Amidst the synthesizer and warped audio, this is the epiphanic moment that Yuri Plisetsky truly realizes he needs other friends.

Before he turns into a pun-loving fuck.   
  
“Can I park?” Mila asks, breaking Yuri out of his dramatic stupor, and he looks to see they’re already pulling into the parking lot.   
  
“Oh, sure,” Viktor agrees. “Yura, why don’t you go in first? You’re already late.”   
  
“...Who’s fault is that?” Yuri grumbles back, gently slamming the door on his way out. Good, it hasn’t left his brain. He still has time.   
  
And technically, they’re late because of their collective inability to avoid the after-work traffic rush and the crash on the highway that clogged up the local roads, but they did leave later than planned after Viktor spent too long in the shower.

The man also vacates the car while Mila struggles to climb between the seats to take his place, which he’s has advised her not to do; to which she usually responds that she’ll be very careful with her feet and the gear shift _this_ time. Georgi is on full alert just in case. 

When she successfully situates herself in the driver’s seat, Mila rolls down the window and waves Yuri off, imitating a parent dropping her kid off on the first day of kindergarten. It’s somehow worse that her tone is earnest instead of patronizing when she says, “have fun! Make some friends okay?”   
  
Yuri’s in no mood to be civil, but he knows name-calling will result in some kind of wrestling move, overhead lift, or body-bending of sorts (without ballet he’d have snapped in half by now), so he just scowls and stomps the other way until he’s through the glass entrance, the rest of them far out of sight.

Past it’s peachy exterior, the _ICE_ building has an excessively confusing layout; the nearly identical doors and walls give off an uncanny sense of deja vu yet simultaneous otherworldliness, like a hospital in the dead of night, or seeing four different McDonald’s pass by on your way to school, or doing something, anything, and realizing it vaguely resembles a dream you had as if it were foresight.

Though Yuri’s sense of direction may be a bit lacking, he manages to work his way through the labyrinth with the help of the occasional directory, brushing off the surreal impression and artificial cold with a brisk walk.

Following twists, turns, and backtracking after he finds a bathroom when he should've arrived at his destination, Yuri eventually stops at another cedar brown door. The only difference is that unlike the others, this one is pasted over with a large paper sign that shouts, “SPEED FRIENDING SESSION TODAY,” headlining smaller details underneath.

Fingers finding grip around the knob, he pushes it open, all the while hoping that the room has at least one or two cool people.

Peering into the doorway after the initial flood of light, the first thing Yuri sees is a group of teenagers gathered in some kind of Satanic summoning circle, convulsively twitching like the beginning of an apocalyptic zombie movie.

 _What the fuck is this_

“Oh, a late arrival?” he hears from a significantly older woman, who’s likely the person running this event. The group of teenagers has halted whatever stupid icebreaker they were doing to turn and stare at him, and to Yuri’s chagrin, some of their eyes glow with recognition.

“Ah, it’s Yuri Plisetsky, the Russian punk!” a girl exclaims to another next to her, just within Yuri’s auditory range.   
  
He doesn’t recognize her and she shrinks back, embarrassed, after taking his glance as a glare. Others in the crowd begin to murmur, and he can hear comments and other nicknames being thrown out. Among them is, _of course someone says it_ , the one that he absolutely despises with a burning passion:   
  
“The Russian Fairy.”   
  
He hates how he’s still being defined by those words.

Now, there’s a lot of background to this; after all, greatness without hardship is few and far between for people who start from the bottom and covet the top.

* * *

A childhood-turned-ongoing dream has driven Yuri to follow in his mother’s footsteps towards fame and glory since the age of three. He admired her, chased after her, watched as she toured all over the country as a popular idol—the shining breadwinner of a single-mother household.

It’s lonely at first. Not much of a stretch to say Yuri saw her more often on a TV screen than in real life, and though he didn’t remember on account of being so young, years later his grandpa would tease him about how he used cling tightly to her leg with his tiny little hands and bawl before she went out, half-consciously knowing that it could be months before she returned.

He, her father, was the one who took care of Yuri all throughout childhood in her place.

Little Yurochka, as his grandpa called him, was soon one of the three boys enrolled in a formal ballet class a few miles from their home. In Russia, ballet was (still is) highly reputed but continuously suffers a largely unproportional gender disparity, so Yuri with his chubby cheeks and vigor for learning was popular in the studio from the get-go.

Said to have the voice of an angel, he also participated in a children's choir, and expanded his repertoire further as he learned how to act through the public school system and local productions that needed young actors to fill their casting calls. With the need to try everything, he grew into a veritable triple threat—quadruple if you include cat-whispering.

Musicals, which combine this impressive array of skills into one dazzling production, became Yuri’s stage of choice.

He’s a prodigy of sorts, steadily building up his reputation as a loveable minor celebrity, and all is well until… well… the accident.

That is not in any way a tragedy, misleading as it sounds.

His grandpa slipped a disc, and though it’s nowhere near close to life-threatening, the pain impeded most strenuous and some mild activity. This means that, at least during the months he needed to heal, it would be difficult to walk if he so much as twisted slightly the wrong way, let alone keep up with taking care of his dear grandson the way he did before.

Having grown up a bit too fast, Yuri insisted he didn’t need to be fussed over anymore, that he’s old enough to look after himself; he’s 10.

So after some serious consideration by his guardian figures, taking into account his own stardom-seeking desires, and wanting to become independent so as not to place a burden on his beloved grandpa, it’s decided that Yuri would live in America with a cousin more than twice his age, who was said to be easygoing, reliable, and a close friend of his grandfather’s despite the large generational gap.

Yuri hadn’t met the man in years, and hardly held much of an impression.   
  
One of the most distinct of his few memories included flowing silver hair as long as Yuri was tall at that age, and the person it belonged to pretending to be annoyed and chiding him lightly, but otherwise putting up no real resistance to Yuri playing with it, even as he grabbed it and pulled it here and there with the spry excitability of a toddler.

Upon arrival in the States six years later, he’s somewhat disappointed to find the beautiful silver hair cut short.  
  
This is how Yuri Plisetsky begins living with a twenty-two-at-the-time Viktor Nikiforov, who had been cohabitating in an upscale apartment with a housemate and a dog, who had made a substantial living for himself as a writer and part-time model, who had left Russia even before becoming a man (surely it was the impulse of youth, the unwillingness to bend, that allowed him to do so) and never looked back.   
  
On the first night following the big move, as he lay in bed petting the cat that his grandfather had helped him adopt and taught him to care for, Yuri sets an even loftier goal for himself. In this new place, he’d become so famous that they would hear his name ringing all the way back in St. Petersburg, and he would repay the various kindnesses that had been given to him.  
  
Improving his English is the first major hurdle. Most immigrants coming for the promise of a bright future face this issue, and many, sadly are not considered of any real value until they become fluent.

That’s the part that Yuri doesn’t understand, because the people in this country are mostly descendants of immigrants and monolingual, but act as if English is the greatest and rightfully most universal language. And it’s not even that, but they assume so.

Personally, he was introduced to the language back in Russian primary school, but only to an extent of uncomfortable formality in unfamiliar vocal tones; and now in America, his school’s ESL programs are mainly equipped for Spanish, Chinese, and Vietnamese students just like the cautions on public transport.

Admitting he needs help as it’s difficult to keep up, he takes some supplementary lesson from Viktor and Georgi, the house mate who loves children in a non-creepy way.   
  
“In the future,” he says to Yuri, “I think it’d be great to have children. We could take them out for family picnics and read to them at night, fill up a few photo albums...”  
  
Already considering himself of a different species, Yuri just replies, “kids suck, get a cat instead.” and unbeknownst to the Georgi of the future, Anya would’ve agreed with that sentiment, albeit much more delicately. 

Here and there at Yura’s (Yurochka as a diminutive is off-limits) bequest, Viktor begins signing him up for auditions in local theatre productions. Most of them turn him down until he gets the hang of speaking with barely a trace of accent, and the ones that don’t only provide bit parts, but Yuri knows where he stands, and he has to start somewhere.

By middle school, he gets back into the swing of things. It takes some time, but he finally finds another ballet studio that isn’t too costly, and within an hour’s bus distance in the case that Viktor is too busy to drive. Learning how to use the abysmal public transport system in America isn’t too complicated, and Yuri only tried to give his money to the bus driver once.

With a proud gait, under his belt are characters with more than three lines, some choral ensemble passages, and a slated semi-major supporting role in a musical that was well reviewed in it’s 90s rendition, but that he’s never even heard of until this point. Regardless, he’ll put his heart into it as he always does.  
  
Overall, things are looking up.


End file.
